


Hunting MJ

by Wicked42 - Spider-Man (Wicked42)



Series: Wicked's PS4 Spider-Verse [11]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Complete, Crime Scenes, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, MJ being badass, OH hey now it's a pregnancy fic, OK here they come, Peter being adorable, Serial Killers, Sickfic, Whump, and also apparently fluff, and now stalking, but not really because i'm too in love with angst, cause peter's still adorable, did i mention a serial killer, mention of sexual violence, near-death, physical assault, probably more tags to come, this fic is so fun isn't it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 20:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42%20-%20Spider-Man
Summary: When a serial killer begins terrorizing New York, MJ takes extreme steps to bring him to justice. Dangerous steps. Steps Peter is Not Okay with... even though she's doing them anyway.I'm a sucker for whump, angst, and drama, so expect ALL that shit. :PTakes place 1 year after the events of the 2018 PS4 game, but... I mean, it's pretty much AU.





	1. The First Kills

**Author's Note:**

> This idea hit me like a bag of bricks after I watched that Ted Bundy Netflix documentary. I just LOVE the idea of MJ tackling something Peter tries to, but can't quite manage. All amidst home life drama and relationship angst. 
> 
> This might get kind of dark? But I'll make sure to label chapters appropriately. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Brief mentions of rape, mutilation, and murder.

For the first time in a year, MJ calls in sick for work.

Peter left hours ago, after a soft alert beeped on his Starkphone. It was so early the light filtering through the blinds was artificial, not the blue light of morning, and MJ rolled over and poked his shoulder until he mumbled under his breath, “I’m the one with super-hearing, y’know,” and fumbled for the cell.

He knocked his alarm clock off the bedside table by accident, and MJ snorted. “Super-hearing, maybe. Super-coordination? Not so much.”

She could feel his exasperated glare through her closed eyes, and she buried deeper into the pillow and flashed him a sunny, sleepy smile.

The mattress dipped, and he yawned, and then the sound of spandex slapping over coiled muscles filled the room. MJ cracked open an eye, offering a low whistle when he turned his bare back to her. His butt somehow looked _even better_ in that sleek blue suit, and she never got tired of the view.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw her gaze, and struck a pose.

She threw a pillow at him.

He caught it—he always caught it—and affixed a look of indignance on his face, but she’d already rolled over and closed her eyes again, leaning back into the exhaustion of too many late nights and early mornings.

Peter kissed her temple before he left, and she mumbled, “Have fun, Tiger,” and let the silence fill what they never say anymore: _be safe_.

Three hours later, her alarm rings for real, but MJ’s already in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, puking her guts out.

When she finally staggers out of the bathroom, she’s weak and shaky and _somehow_ still nauseas. She sinks onto the bed, glances at the time. It’s almost 9am. Panic seizes in her heart, and she snatches her phone off the bedside table. “Shit, _shit_.”

Four missed calls from Robbie. It’s not a surprise; the absolute latest she shows up for work is 8am. But _wow_ , time flies when the porcelain goddess calls. Humiliation burns her cheeks as she presses a shaky finger to the screen, dials Robbie’s direct line.

He answers after the second ring. “Daily Bugle, Robbie Robertson.”

“Hey, Robbie. It’s MJ.”

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” the man grouses. “Where the hell are you, Watson? We’re over here thinking it’s Armageddon!”

MJ presses a hand to her forehead. Her skin feels warm, grainy with dried sweat. At the thought of the morning’s proceedings, her stomach lurches again, and she swallows a groan. “I’m—gonna have to take a sick day.”

“Are you dying?” Robbie deadpans. “Cause I can call that boyfriend of yours.”

“No! No, Jesus, I’m fine. Just a bug.”

Robbie harrumphs, unconvinced.

MJ bends over, forehead touching her knees. It must be some bug, to knock her down like this. She forces her voice to remain level, composed. “Just email me what I need to get done. I’ll try to work from home.”

Robbie barks a laugh. “Shit, if everyone had your work ethic, we’d never miss deadline. The Bugle will somehow plow forward without you, Watson. Take your day.” He pauses, then says, “Feel better.”

“Will do,” MJ replies, and hangs up.

She stares at the phone for a while afterwards, but it doesn’t seem worthwhile to call Peter… not when the worst seems over. Or maybe the worst is just over because there’s literally nothing left in her stomach. Either way, Peter’s early-morning alerts are fine-tuned, so if he left hours ago and hasn’t checked in since, whatever he’s up to will be far more serious than an upset stomach.

So she leaves the phone on her nightstand, then staggers into the living room. The blinds are all still drawn, and she has no desire to open them. If she’s taking a sick day, she’s doing it right, with a cozy blanket and cave-like darkness and maybe a cup of tea in a few hours, if her stomach’s stopped churning.

She fishes the Pikachu pillow and a bright pink, fuzzy blanket from the dark confines of the chest-like coffee table, then curls up next to the couch’s armrest and flicks on the TV. Her head’s still spinning, but there’s something about the daily news that’s as comforting to her as breathing. She rests her chin on Pikachu’s head and lets her mind drift.

Until she sees the news report.

Three women, brutally murdered overnight, massacred in separate, anonymous alleyways. Even the reporter, Rachel Johnson, who MJ knows for a _fact_ has a strong disposition and a stronger journalism history, looks horrified as she relays the events of the night.

Victims in their early twenties, raped, strangled, and then beaten to a bloody pulp post-mortem.

Dragged into dark alleys on quiet side streets.

Abandoned.

The murders happened within a five block radius and a four hour window of each other. Their identities are still being determined, but the killer left no calling cards, no DNA, no evidence at all.

The first body was discovered five hours ago, within minutes of Peter’s alert.

MJ feels sick all over again. She calls Robbie back, shivering in her tank top and pajama pants, pacing the length of their galley kitchen. “What the _hell_ , Robbie? You didn’t tell me there was a fucking murderer on the loose! Who’s covering that story?”

“We’ve got Jerry looking into it—”

“Jerry? No. No way. I want this.”

Robbie sounds exasperated. “Weren’t you sick just a few hours ago?”

“Well, I’m better now,” MJ lies. The idea of eating—or even drinking a few sips of water—makes her swallow compulsively, and unusual exhaustion has settled deep in her bones. But it’s a fucking serial killer, and those dead women deserve the best coverage they can get. “You know Jerry has _nothing_ on me. He won’t do any of the investigation we need to headline this story. Unless you want to be trailing behind the Times again?”

Robbie heaves a sigh. “Jesus, Watson. You’re one of our best, but you need to learn when to take a break.”

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” she says.

“Fine, _fine_. Take the goddamn story. I want whatever you can get by 4pm.”

“On it,” she replies, and strides into the bathroom to shower.

 

* * *

 

Turns out, not eating does wonders for nausea, and by noon MJ feels almost human. It’s getting cold out, but with the bright October sunshine, she’s able to sneak by with a long-sleeved shirt and her leather jacket. She prominently displays her press badge as she strides up to the first crime scene.

The body’s long gone, but the blood remains. Even past the police barriers, MJ can see a thick pool of it drying on the concrete, partially hidden behind a dumpster. She cranes her neck to see better, snapping a few photos with her high-resolution camera.

"No photos." An officer steps in her path. He’s a detective; his badge hanging on a chain around his neck, holster on display when he sweeps his business jacket over his hips. His gaze is sharp, assertive. “Move along.”

MJ raises an eyebrow. “In this day and age, does that line _really_ work anymore?”

“Works just fine when I couple it with the threat of arrest,” the detective replies, drily. He doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the mess behind him… but he’s probably seen worse.

“Arrest for what? Loitering?” MJ rolls her eyes and gets to the point. “What can you tell me about the murder?”

The detective raises an eyebrow, almost amused. His badge says Anderson on it, and by the way he’s studying her, he didn’t earn his rank for nothing. But that’s all right; MJ’s job came hard-earned too, and she’s studying him right back.

Coffee stain on the inside of his shirt, well-hidden by the jacket, but an otherwise impeccable appearance, with polished shoes and pressed pants. Five o’clock shadow, like he didn’t get the chance to shave this morning; must be a style choice. Deep blue eyes, crinkled with age. He’s maybe mid-forties, and is definitely one of the detectives assigned to this case. Which means he must be in the major crimes division.

“I can’t tell you anything, which I’m sure you know,” Anderson says, crossing his arms. His gun once again appears in prominent display. “How old are you? Twenty? Jesus, reporters get younger and younger, don’t they?”

MJ resists the urge to quip, _or maybe you’re just getting older and older._ Instead, she replies, curtly, “Twenty-four, actually. Not that it mattered when I was in a warzone, reporting on the unrest in Symkaria, or interviewing witnesses to the Osborn rally bombing last November.”

Anderson is shocked into a laugh. He holds up his hands, lips quirking upwards. “All right, all right. I get it. You still can’t stand here, though. If you want more information, the captain’s holding a press conference in about thirty minutes.”

Not good enough. She's going to have to amp up the charm. MJ lowers her camera, offering her hand. “Where are my manners? I’m Mary Jane Watson. Daily Bugle.”

He shakes, his tight grip almost painful around her fingers. “Detective Anderson.”

“Detective, you clearly take a lot of pride in what you do. I respect that. These other reporters are going to spin whatever story they please, hype up the fear, whether or not it does justice to the victims or your department’s hard investigative work. Give me an exclusive interview, and I promise I’ll tell the story you’re seeing, start to finish.”

It’s _highly_ improper, but sometimes detectives break rank. Sometimes, they appreciate kindred spirits in the press, rather than the news outlets spinning whatever story will sell best. And she recognizes the gleam in his eye—he’s hungry for attention. That’s why he hasn’t followed through on his arrest threat yet.

He’s intrigued by her, and since he has all the information she needs, she’s intrigued too.

He draws a breath, glances over his shoulder at the officers collecting last-minute evidence, the contract cleaners waiting to power wash the poor woman’s blood off the concrete. MJ waits, impatiently, swept in the thrill of a good story.

Finally, he scrubs his face. “Fine. All I can tell you is that the victims seem unrelated. A twenty-two year old barista, killed two streets over, a twenty-three year old dog walker, over on 42nd, and a twenty-three year old law student.” He gestures at the blood stain behind him. “The only way we’re connecting the kills is their proximity and the MO.”

“So there’s nothing in common with them?” MJ asks, jotting down some notes on her cell phone.

“Well, they all had the same purse, which I thought was strange. A Louis Vuitton knockoff.”

“Chinatown connection, maybe?”

“Too early to say,” the detective shrugs.

MJ squints past him at the crime scene, and this time Anderson steps aside to give her a better view. She flashes him a grateful smile and snaps a few more photos. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

He lowers his voice, expression grim. “The killer’s smart. You heard he left no evidence?”

MJ nods.

“There aren’t fiber imprints or bloody footprints or any kind of DNA evidence, even though the girls were raped before being killed. No witnesses, nothing to find on street cams. Everything about the crime scenes imply it was a murder of passion, but the lack of _any_ distinguishing factors makes me think he planned this well in advance.”

A thrill races through MJ, with guilt following on its heels. These three women are the victims, and she needs to focus her story on them, not the perpetrator and how clever he is. But… there’s something raw and exciting about a story like this, getting an exclusive interview into a truly confounding series of murders.

MJ writes it all down, opens her mouth to ask more questions when a flash of red and blue way up high catches her gaze. Her eyes flick to the building just in time to see Spider-Man waving at her, then jerking a thumb at the roof.

Detective Anderson follows her gaze, but Peter’s already gone. The alley’s walls are empty.

MJ tucks her phone in her pocket. “Thank you, Detective. I promise I’ll do this story justice.” She plucks out a business card, hands it to him with a smirk. “If you need anything, or think of anything else, feel free to give me a call.”

Anderson snorts, but takes the card anyway.

She strolls down the block, out of the detective’s view, then ducks into the nearest entrance. It’s an apartment building, which is excellent, because that means the police might have missed a witness. But before she can start knocking on doors, she turns to the elevator.

It’s broken, of course. MJ heaves a sigh, then starts the arduous process of climbing twenty flights of stairs.

By the time she reaches the roof, she’s cursing Peter for choosing such a high rendezvous—he could have just texted her, like a _normal_ millennial. She pushes open the door, remembering only at the last second to prop it open with her knapsack so she isn’t locked out. That’s happened more than once.

Not that it matters much, when your boyfriend is Spider-Man. But being carried to street level is kind of ridiculous, when there are perfectly good stairs a few feet away.

Peter’s standing nearby, and he takes one look at her and gapes.

(At least, she assumes he’s gaping; he doesn’t take the mask off unless they’re somewhere hidden, like the top of the Empire State Building. It's not worth the risk otherwise.)

His tone’s incredulous enough for it, though. “Shit, MJ, are you okay?”

She’s dizzy from the climb and sweat drips past her temples, but she just rakes her hair into a ponytail to get it off her neck and replies, “Fine and dandy.” The brisk air outside actually feels good after the stuffy confines of the stairwell. Not that it’s enough; her mouth is bone dry, and she’s starting to feel like crap again.

He narrows his eyes; because of his mask’s responsive lenses, she doesn’t have to guess that gesture. “Remember when you got sick because you stayed up for three days, told me you were fine, then fainted at work? You look like you did then, right before you promised me you’d take better care of yourself.”

His words are almost petulant, but firm enough that she heaves a sigh. When the simple act of drawing a deep breath makes her head spin, she silently admits he’s probably right.

“I know, I know.” She leans against an air conditioning unit so she doesn’t fall over, and he’s at her side in an instant, reaching for his mask’s seams. Probably to get a better look at her without pinholed metal in the way.

“No, don’t,” she says, stilling his hands. “I’m really fine. It’s just a 24 hour bug or something. I called out sick for work, but—well, then I saw the news.”

His mask reveals more facial expressions than he knows, and she’s had nine years to learn how to read them. And even if she _couldn’t_ see the tense press of his lips, the slight incline of his head, his body language belays his worry. “If you called out sick, you should really go home...”

“Trust me, I plan on it.” She wipes her forehead, smearing sweat on her leather jacket. “But this is important. What can you tell me?”

He glances over his shoulder at the alley where, twenty stories down, the cops are wrapping up their investigation. “It was bad. Worse than anything I’ve ever seen. Those women weren’t just beaten; they were mutilated.”

“Mutilated how?” MJ asks, even as her stomach flips again. She firmly orders it to shut the hell up, because she doubts anything he says next will be worse than the _fucking warzone_ in Symkaria, and this queasiness is just ridiculous.

Peter squints at her again. “MJ, you kind of look like you’re about to puke.” She scowls at him, and he holds up his hands. “W-Wait. That came out wrong. Of course you’re still beautiful. Stunning, even! Pretty as a rose field in a mountain valley—”

“Oh, Jesus,” MJ mutters. “If I puke, it’s because of you, not the bug.”

He quirks a grin, but it softens quickly. “Lemme take you home. The story’s not going anywhere.”

“Robbie wants it by 4pm. They’re about to hold a press conference, and if we don’t come up with more than the cops give, we’re going to lose the headline.”

“Oh.”

He looks so awkward, shifting his weight while he obviously debates how far he wants to push this. MJ nearly laughs, feels that familiar surge of happiness that comes whenever Peter’s being adorable, and takes his hand.

“If you swing me home, I _will_ puke,” she says. “But I promise I’m heading there, okay?”

“Okay. I trust you,” he says, cautiously, and she knows without a doubt she’ll have a web-slinging shadow all the way back to the apartment. But the old anger—which was really just old insecurity—doesn’t flare like it used to. They’ve _finally_ reached a point in their relationship where they take care of each other, like equals, like partners, so she knows his attentiveness is just because he’s head-over-heels for her.

It’s sweet, when she reframes it like that.

Peter glances at her knapsack, still propping the door open. “Did you bring some water, at least? Or food?”

MJ makes a face. “Food isn’t in the forecast today. Trust me.”

“Water?” he nearly begs.

She rolls her eyes and says, without malice, “Sure, Mom. I’ll grab a bottle on the way home.”

“Mom, huh? I mean, I’d prefer Dad, at least, but—”

“Peter. The case.”

He sighs. “I don’t have much information. I saw the bodies before they were collected by the coroner, but now with Yuri… _gone_ —” he says the word cautiously, like the alternative, the truth, would physically pain him to admit. Which, considering the ex-captain’s mad descent, so similar to the spiral Otto experienced, makes sense. MJ’s careful to avoid bringing up either name these days, and Peter moves on quickly, “—any inside information is pretty unattainable. Most cops aren’t a huge fan of me.”

Well, that’s not quite true. Plenty of officers _love_ Spider-Man. She’s interviewed dozens who’ve waxed poetic about his abilities and crime-fighting tactics. But she also remembers the days when police shot Spider-Man on sight, remembers too vividly digging their bullets from Peter’s bleeding flesh while he screamed through a thick rag.

Yuri was different. An olive branch Peter always dreamed of, latched onto with super-powered strength. She’s proving a difficult figure to replace.

Luckily, MJ already has a lead. “Well, I talked to the detective down there, and he gave me some information. Did you see matching purses on the women?”

“I mean, I guess they were similar. They were all brown, those sideways ones you like.” He mimes a saddlebag, measuring the size of it with his hands. MJ rolls her eyes, swallowing a laugh at how hard he’s concentrating to relay women’s fashion. “And they had a clippy thing on the front. Gold, I think.”

“Would you recognize it if you saw it again?”

“Probably,” he shrugs.

MJ squeezes his arm. “God, you’re the best source a reporter can have.”

“Um, thanks?” Alarm shifts into his tone, and he crosses his arms. “Wait. We’re not going to look at those today, are we? Because you still look—”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

He clears his throat, “Ah, lovely. Lovely as always.”

“Nice save,” she drawls, but he’s right. She has enough information to write a skeleton article for Robbie, and then… crawling back into bed sounds kind of nice. She takes a risk, stepping into his space and lifting the base of his mask, pressing a fast kiss against his lips before he can respond. Hopefully whatever bug she has isn’t contagious.

Not that it matters to Peter. A grin spreads across his lips, and he winds his hands around her waist as she tugs the mask back into position. “Wow. I should interrupt your work day more often.”

“Don’t get ideas.” MJ snorts. “See you tonight, Tiger. Do me a favor and keep an eye on those crime scenes, will you?”

“Anything you want. But I can walk you home first—”

“I’ll be fine. Get back to it, Spidey.” She waves and heads for the stairs.

But as she passes by the alleyway, by the cleaners hosing away the blood, she can’t help but wonder who’s prowling their city… and whether the person is hunting for more victims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I miss Yuri. So, SO much. T.T I had all these great plans for her involvement in this fic, and then I remembered the end of Turf Wars... which I'd conveniently ERASED FROM MY MEMORY because she was so badass I didn't want her to be evil too. 
> 
> Then I had to restructure the whole plot, and now I'm basically flying by the seat of my pants here. So WHEEEEE let's see how I pull this off. XD


	2. The Victims

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The victims are identified, but the killer's still at large.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: mention of vomiting. 
> 
> Also, vague spoilers for the Spider-Man DLC, Turf Wars. (OH HI YURI, SHOWED UP AFTER ALL DID YOU???)

The victims’ names are released later that night.

Peter’s already back at the apartment; he returned far earlier than usual, bearing three kinds of sports drinks and a tiny box of chocolates, and hasn’t let MJ out of his sight since. It’s a futile point, considering her nausea has hovered around the _mild discomfort_ level for most of the evening, and she’s certain by tomorrow she’ll be back to normal. But she still lets him fuss over her, because for all her strong will and love of independence, it’s nice to be taken care of once in a while.

 _Only_ once in a while.

Her eyes are slipping shut when the news report drops. Considering the news stations have been sharing published information—MJ’s information—it’s nothing noteworthy… until NCC’s report. A huge banner flashes on the bottom of their modest screen: _BREAKING NEWS_.

Peter turns up the TV without prompting.

Debra Kiddings and Mark Follmoth are reporting, a dynamic duo with a no-nonsense reputation. Debra’s face is grim as she addresses the camera. “The PDNY has just released the names of the three young women who were murdered in Chinatown last night.”

MJ jackknifes upright, leaning over her knees to get closer to the screen. It’s unnecessary—the women’s pictures are on full display now, including their names and ages in bright white font.

Karen Chang, 22. The barista.

Latoya Smith, 23. The dog walker.

And Hannah Montigo, 23. The law student, and the owner of that drying puddle of blood in MJ’s photos.

She feels sick all over again, and this time it has nothing to do with a stomach bug. Peter’s hand finds her shoulder, squeezes comfortingly, but she doesn’t miss the tremor in his hands, the sudden paleness of his face.

She might have seen Hannah’s blood, but Peter saw _Hannah_ … too late to do anything but stare.

MJ sets her jaw. “We’ve got to find this guy.” This asshole, the _oh-so-clever_ serial killer who thinks he’s owed not one, not two, but three young women’s lives and bodies. She shoves off the couch, abruptly, stalking to the desk pushed against the far wall, to the laptop perpetually open and waiting for a story.

“Hang on. We as in ‘you and me,’ or the collective we… as in ‘New York as a whole?’”

“Yes,” MJ replies, darkly.

“How did I know?” Peter mutters, then steps over to her, watching her fingers fly across the keyboard. “I thought you were going to bed early.” The words sound defeated, like he already knows he lost.

Well, to be fair, he has.

MJ snorts. “What a comedian.”

“I’ll have you know that Spider-Man has a _fantastic_ reputation for humor,” Peter says. He leans against the desk, crossing his arms. When she doesn’t so much as smile at him, he huffs. “Okay, fine. A moderate reputation for humor.”

Now she pauses, arching one perfectly manicured eyebrow.

He frowns. “A passable reputation for humor?”

“How about a cringeworthy—”

“Come on! Where’s the girlfriend support?”

MJ laughs. “It vanished that night you made so many puns about sex it almost didn’t happen.”

He looks horrified. “It was three puns, excuse you, and they weren’t meant to be dirty.”

“Then you clearly didn’t understand them.” MJ pats his arm, flashes a pretty smile, and goes back to her task. Behind them, Debra is still speaking in clipped tones about the women’s lifestyles, but it’s so early NCC doesn’t have much.

Sure enough, Robbie has just sent her an email, with everything the Bugle already knows about the women attached. He wants a full report in an hour, anything she can dig up on their hobbies, extracurriculars, and daily routes. Anything to release that keeps their “exclusive” content exclusive.

MJ groans. “Guess a day off isn’t in the cards for me. I need to get to their apartments, start interviewing their roommates and friends—”

“Now?” Peter cuts her off, incredulous. “MJ, it’s almost 8pm.”

She does a fast search, securing their addresses in moments. “That’s not going to stop NCC’s staff from making house calls.” Silently, she maps out the fastest route, deciding on Hannah’s apartment first.

But when she stands up, a wave of dizziness slams into her. She grabs the first solid thing to keep from falling over: Peter’s arm.

He steadies her, brows furrowing. “Look. You haven’t eaten anything today. You’ve barely drank. I don’t think this bug has run its course.”

“I can’t worry about it,” she replies, even though a quiet part of her mind whispers he’s right; she needs another day, at least.

But those women deserve to have their stories told, and MJ will do a better job than anyone. Already, her article from Detective Anderson’s interview has gone viral, spreading the word to all corners of the globe that a killer’s on the loose, and the PDNY is on the hunt.

Peter follows her into the kitchen, plucking her keys out of the little ceramic bowl before she can react. She spins towards him, but his hands are already up, a peacekeeping gesture. “I’m not going to stop you, MJ. Honest. But—just imagine what kind of rapport you’ll make with these people if you, oh, I don’t know, puke on their shoes?”

She stills.

Probably, it won’t happen. But even on the walk home from the crime scene, she had to sprint into a crowded coffee shop and make lovely friends with their toilet. Just because her stomach hasn’t lurched in a few hours doesn’t mean it won’t again.

Sweat beads on her brow just thinking about it.

Peter swallows, keys dangling from his fingers. “What if you stay here, and _I_ do some investigating?”

“As who? Spider-Man, or some random guy in a plaid shirt? You’re not press, Pete.”

“I was, once! In fact, I seem to remember several of your articles running _my_ photos. Just email Robbie back and tell him I’m checking it out.”

MJ opens her mouth—to what? Argue? She’s not sure—but his cell phone rings, silencing them both. Peter groans in frustration, and MJ holds out her hand. He drops the keys, reluctantly, but flashes her a pleading gaze.

“Just take care of yourself, MJ,” he says, nearly begs.

She presses a kiss to his cheek, squeezes his arm. “I’ll be fine. No dark alleys.”

The blood drains from his face. “W-Wait. I didn’t even think about the murderer—”

“Pete. I can take care of myself.”

The battle in his mind is so intense, MJ can see it all over his face. In the other room, his phone stops ringing. He doesn’t give his number out to many people, so whenever it sounds, it’s almost always an emergency.

But clearly not as big of an emergency as MJ, strolling through New York City after dark. His jaw is clenched as he says, “I’m coming with you.”

“Someone just called. I don’t think you’re going to have time, Tiger.” MJ jerks a thumb in the direction of the living room. Distantly, she can still hear the NCC news reporters rehashing the victims’ information, wonders if maybe police found another one. Maybe that’s what the call was about.

“It’s fine—”

“Peter,” MJ says, gently.

He groans, clenching his fingers in his hair. “Please. Please don’t go.”

He’s lost too many people over the years. All of his family, his best friend, and almost her on multiple occasions. It’s a reflex, this raw fear for her safety. Like she can’t survive if he isn’t around to hold her hand.

They both know it’s a lie, but it doesn’t stop how he feels.

Briefly, she considers listening to him. Curling back up on the couch, waving as he dons his suit and slings out the window, watching Debra and Mark discuss the victims while she sips from a mug of hot tea.

But this story can’t wait. Those women can’t wait.

So she offers a noncommittal smile, and when he turns towards his cell phone, she slips out the front door.

 

* * *

 

She makes it to the subway before Robbie calls.

“Yeah?”

“Watson! Turn around, head home.”

MJ puffs in frustration, stepping into the bustling station. Even this late at night, the city’s jam-packed with people. “Did Peter call you?”

“And he was damn right to,” Robbie sounds annoyed. “I asked you to research those women, not traipse over to their apartments for invasive interviews with their grieving friends and family! Jesus, Watson, we have a reputation to uphold.”

“I was under the impression telling the _truth_ was our reputation. We’re not some tabloid, Robbie, and we’re going to lose our upper hand if I don’t follow these leads.”

Robbie growls. “It’s late. What the hell are you going to do? Just knock on their doors and hope they’re willing to talk?”

“Yes,” MJ replies, rolling her eyes.

“No. If you’re going to get sued again, do it over valuable information, not a puff piece.” He pauses, then adds, “Besides. I don’t like you walking around town late at night. I saw their photos. You fit the profile pretty damn well, you know that?”

Oh, Jesus Christ. MJ slips onto the train just as the doors shut, elbowing her way to the back corner for a modicum of peace. “Why does everyone think I’m going to be murdered tonight?”

“Because you’re not great at making friends.”

“Hey,” MJ drawls.

“Hey nothing. Turn around, go home. _Now_ , Watson.” He hangs up the phone.

MJ grumbles under her breath, sees she missed three calls from Peter, and feels an irrational surge of anger. She gets the danger. Really, she does. But she’s also a martial arts expert and _professional_ observer. If some sleezebag killer tries to coerce her into an alley, he’ll have another thing coming.

She shoves her phone in her pocket, narrowing her eyes at absolutely nothing.

Much as it pains her to admit it, Robbie has a point about the family and friends. She needs them to open up to her, befriend her the way Detective Anderson did, or getting information will be nearly impossible.

Maybe Pete was right. Maybe tonight’s not the best time for this.

But, damn it all, it’s hard to text him that. She disembarks at the next train stop, but stares at her phone for another five minutes before summoning the courage to call her boyfriend.

He answers immediately. She can hear the telltale _schwick-schwick-schwick_ in the background, so he’s clearly out doing the Spider-Man thing, but he sounds stupidly relieved: “MJ? Oh thank god. Please tell me you're going home.” Then he seems to realize what he said, and adds, forced casual, "I mean, how is everything?"

It takes more than a minute to school her voice into calm and collected, instead of indignant and angry. "Well, Robbie just called.”

“O-Oh?” he asks.

“He told me to go home. Expressly forbade me from interviewing the roommates.”

“So, naturally, you’re doing it anyway?” Peter sounds flat-out miserable now. 

All of MJ’s anger leaves in a whoosh. She's being unfair. Pete didn’t stop her from leaving the apartment. Didn’t order her to stay indoors. He went over her head, but—he had some good reasons as to why, and none of them had to do with MJ’s ability or competence.

Wasn’t she just thinking earlier that her insecurities in their relationship were ancient, a relic of the past?

If she’s back to that now, where are they?

“No,” she says, surprising herself. Already, she’s climbing the subway stairs to cross the street, take the other line back to her apartment. “I’m going home. Thinking of a nice bath and an early bedtime.”

“Really?” Peter is positively gleeful. “That’s great, MJ. I think you deserve it.”

Happiness swells in her chest, so sudden it makes her breathless. God, she loves him.

“Yeah, me too. I’ll text you when I get there, okay?”

“Okay! I shouldn’t be long out here.”

Right. The missed phone call. Must have been important, to keep him schwick-ing around the city instead of trailing behind her like a puppy dog. “Who called? Is everything okay?”

Briefly, she wonders if there’s been another murder.

But his reply is even more startling. “Um… it was actually Yuri. I’m on my way to meet her.”

“What?” MJ exclaims. A couple nearby flinch, conversations cutting off as they stop to glare. She waves them off—they must from out of town, if that offended them so much—and descends the steps to the other subway line. “Yuri? As in, the murdering vigilante?”

Peter sounds miserable. “I’d prefer if you didn’t call her that. She was a really good cop, and an even better friend.”

MJ doesn’t mention that she was only a friend until she started killing criminals in front of Peter. Doesn’t mention how devastated he was, how he still gets nightmares about the terrible things she’s done in the months since going rogue. They’re two sides of the same coin, and Peter knows it—knows how far he could fall if his morals waver, even once.

Even though she’s never met Yuri, MJ’s not a fan.

“Just… be careful, okay? I don’t trust her.”

“I don’t either, anymore,” Peter says, quietly. “I love you, MJ. Enjoy your bath, and I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you too, Pete.” She hangs up the phone, trying to ignore the nervous twist of her heart.

Trying to ignore the reality that this serial killer isn’t the only criminal on the loose.

 

* * *

 

By the time she crawls in bed, Peter still isn’t home, but she feels almost human again. The nausea is gone, and the hot bath relaxed her enough that when she sinks under the covers, she’s asleep before she can count to ten.

But come 3am, her stomach churns violently and her mouth pools with saliva and she barely makes it to the toilet, barely has time to orient herself before she’s choking, heaving into the porcelain bowl.

Which is, of _course_ , when Peter crawls into the apartment through the bedroom window.

She only knows because the blast of cold air slams against the thin layer of sweat coating her bare skin. She shivers, weighted with exhaustion, forehead resting on the cool plastic seat.

“MJ?”

Her stomach lurches again. Turns out, it’s pretty hard to stifle the sounds of puking.

Probably doesn’t help that her boyfriend has super-hearing, either.

He’s at her side in an instant, twisting her hair off her neck, rubbing her back in slow, comforting circles. At least, it should be comforting. But after all this time, MJ has never puked in front of him. Knowing what he’s seeing, her cheeks burn with humiliation and misery.

And stupid Peter just keeps murmuring to her, like saying encouraging things like, “You’re okay,” and “Just let it all out,” are actually going to make her _feel better_.

“Will you shut up?” she moans, when the dry heaving has slowed to shallow, careful breaths. Sweat streams down her face, dripping into the bowl as she fumbles with the handle, flushes the mess away.

Peter’s hand stills. “Am—Am I not helping?”

“You can _help_ by leaving me alone.”

She feels bad, when she catches a flash of blue and red as he steps out of the bathroom, quietly closes the door. He didn’t even stop to change out of the suit before checking on her. Probably, she should have been nicer.

But she’s not feeling very nice right now.

It takes another several minutes to quell the nausea, to feel strong enough to wash her face, brush her teeth, step into the bedroom. Nights like these, she misses being single, misses handling illness in protective solitude.

Nothing’s private anymore. Not with Peter living here.

He’s perched on the bed, dressed in just his Iron Man boxers, fingers tapping anxiously against his knees. He surges upright when he sees her, forces a smile. “Do you feel better?”

“Just dandy,” she mumbles, standing awkwardly in the bathroom doorway. He’s standing right next to her side of the bed, so she’d have to walk past him to get there. The thought of standing so close to him while feeling—and probably smelling—so gross, keeps her rooted.

She notices, belatedly, that he put a bucket beside her nightstand.

Cute.

“How was Yuri?”

He seems surprised at the change of subject, and shifts uncomfortably. “Um, good. Good.” When MJ doesn’t ask more questions, he fills the silence. “She’s, ah, tracking the serial killer. Says she doesn’t trust the PDNY to find him in time.”

MJ can’t say she approves of Yuri’s methods, but that’s a shock. The last hour falls from her mind as she pushes off the bathroom doorframe. “Wait. Does she know anything about him?”

“Not much. She actually wanted me to break into the Public Works office downtown and pull traffic tapes from Chinatown.”

“What’d you tell her?”

Peter looks offended. “No, of course. I can’t break the law to help _her_.”

“You break the law all the time.”

Peter stiffens. “Only if I have to. You know that.”

MJ sighs. “Pete. You told me Yuri was one of the best cops you’ve known. She’s offering to track a serial killer, someone who murdered three women in cold blood.”

“Illegally.” Peter crosses his arms. “I’m not going to partner with her brand of justice. Not anymore.” His tone is colder than MJ’s heard it in a while, darker than she cares to entertain.

She steps closer to him, taking his hand. Even though she’s weak and dizzy and still somehow nauseas, this is more important than sleeping the sickness away. “I won’t tell you what to do. But answer me honestly. If anyone else asked you for this kind of help, for this reason, would you have refused them?”

Peter’s expression crumbles, and he sinks back onto the bed. “I—I don’t know. I’m so angry around her, MJ. She was even surprised; I didn’t hide it very well.”

“You have every right to be angry,” MJ says, bitterly. “She betrayed everything she stood for, and nearly took you down in the process. But maybe this is how she’s trying to redeem herself.”

“Maybe.”

MJ kisses his hair. It’s sweaty from patrol, and she’s pleasantly surprised she’s not the only gross one here tonight. “Just think about it. If you refuse her, fine, but make sure it’s because you believe it’s wrong, and not because she’s the one asking.”

He squeezes her hand. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

“I’m going back to bed. Thanks for the bucket.” Her words are dry as a sidewalk in August, and he barks a laugh.

“Just a precaution. Might save you a trip.”

“And you a load of laundry.”

They climb into bed, and she turns off the light, settling into her pillows. She has three of variant fluff levels, and she picks the thickest, firmest one to snuggle up against. Peter seems to realize she doesn’t want to cuddle with _him_ , tonight, because he keeps his distance.

Her eyes are drifting shut when he says into the darkness, “Hey, MJ? Do you… ah, do you think you might be pregnant?”

She jolts upright. _Jesus Christ._ What kind of guy just—just drops that question at 4am?

“No. Absolutely not! It’s a bug, Peter. A stupidly persistent _virus_.”

She can’t see him in the dark, not really, but she hits his dark lump with one of her pillows anyway. He recoils from the hit, stammering: “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—it just seems like maybe you—”

God, she’s going to kill him.

“You know I’m on birth control,” she snaps. A distant part of her wonders why she’s so offended, so angry.

But the front-and-center part of her bristles defensively, screaming that he’s wrong, that he _has_ to be wrong. She’s Mary Jane Watson, feared investigative reporter. There’s absolutely no room for _mother_ in that title.

“I know,” Peter says, sounding like he very much regrets bringing it up. Good. He should regret it. And just when she think he’s going to drop it, roll over and go to sleep like a sane person, he adds, in a quiet voice, “But that’s not a flawless science.”

“Don’t talk to me about science,” MJ hisses. “Jesus, Parker. For the love of our relationship, _go to bed_.”

He falls silent, finally, but she can practically hear his mind spinning a mile a minute. Crunching numbers, the nights they’ve had sex and the days when MJ’s on her period, comparing them to the latest bout of PMS.

MJ stays stubbornly quiet, but… she’s crunching them too.

And she realizes, with silent horror, that there’s a distinct possibility he might be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PLOT THICKENS. 
> 
> Okay, but for realz, I promise this won't become a pregnancy fic. I mean, MJ will be pregnant, but it's only for the added drama between her and Peter. They will not be going to doctors appointments and ultrasounds and lamaze classes and shit. I need more action than that. :P 
> 
> ALSO I'M TRASH and couldn't resist adding Yuri anyway. I just... love her so much.


	3. The Purses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ digs into the one lead they have, while coming to terms with her pregnancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: contemplation of abortion; mention of beatings, rape, strangulation.

Another alert dings on Peter’s phone maybe two hours later, just as soft morning light begins to peek through the blinds. It’s not enough sleep—lately, they never get enough sleep—but by the way Peter leaps out of bed, MJ highly suspects he wasn’t sleeping at all.

To be fair, she hasn’t either.

This time, though, she keeps her eyes stubbornly closed, forces her breathing to remain even and deep, stays perfectly still even as Peter checks his phone, curses, and slips into his suit. Her gut screams that it’s another murder, but the fear of talking to Peter again, of confronting his suspicions, _her_ suspicions, keeps her from asking.

He presses a kiss to her temple, like always, but this time she doesn’t mumble a goodbye.

When he sighs and slips through their window into the cold New York morning, guilt churns in MJ’s stomach.

Or maybe that’s just the morning sickness.

She doesn’t stay in bed long after Peter leaves. The bucket actually comes in handy, something solid to grip as she bends over her knees and takes forceful, soothing breaths. She thinks they have some anti-nausea medicine in the kitchen, from the early days when swinging between buildings was less exhilarating and more horrifying, but something whispers that _it might not be good for the baby_.

Which just makes her even angrier. There might not even be a baby. And besides, why should some tiny thing growing inside her take priority over _her_ comfort?

But it does.

Which is why, when someone knocks on the front door, she’s back in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet. The only reason she hears it at all is because, a moment later, the door unlocks and someone steps into her apartment.

Panic sweeps through her, until she remembers the _other_ person who has a key.

“Hello?” Miles calls, tentatively.

For Christ’s sake, she’s going to murder Peter. Cold blood, premeditative, all that jazz. They’ll be finding pieces of him from the Financial District to Little Tokyo. MJ spits into the toilet, flushes, pushes herself onto unsteady feet.

“Go away, Morales,” she tries to shout. After the morning’s ministrations, it’s pretty hoarse, and probably not at all convincing. She staggers to the doorframe, imagines the wood is Peter’s head, and clenches hard enough to leave tiny crescents the paint. “I don’t know what he told you, but I’m _fine_.”

Bless him, Miles is a good kid. He doesn’t broach the doorway the apartment, standing awkwardly beside the cabinet divider between her living room and kitchen. He even shields his eyes, as if she’s strolling around the apartment naked at 7am.

It’s definitely not that kind of morning.

“I’m sorry, MJ! I don’t mean to intrude, and—and I’ll leave if you want. Peter just asked, and—” he cuts himself off, and his face darkens into a blush. “This is weird. Sorry. I’ll leave.”

She steps further into the hall, suddenly very aware of her sweat-matted hair, her sickly skin. But he’s still covering his eyes, which leaves her free to survey him properly. A bookbag hangs off his shoulder; it is Wednesday, after all. Of course he has class.

But it’s the plastic bag in his free hand that interests her.

“What is that?” Suspicion crawls into her tone.

Miles flinches. “Peter asked me to bring it. I swear it wasn’t my idea!”

Jesus, he might as well be standing over a body, for as guilty as he sounds. MJ winces, redirects that thought. Not a body. That’s insensitive, considering yesterday.

Of course, not as insensitive as the _pregnancy test_ MJ finds after she rips the plastic bag out of his hand.

“You’ve got to _fucking_ be kidding me.”

“Not my idea!” Miles insists again, uncovering his eyes to raise both hands in defense. It’s ridiculous; he’s a spider-guy too, so there’s no way she could do any real damage to him. Of course, she’s never felt quite as murderous-y as she does right now.

But Miles isn’t the one she wants to take a swing at.

“Peter is goddamn lucky he’s across the city right now,” MJ hisses.

“Good ol’ Parker luck?”

MJ silences him with a glare, then drops the pregnancy test in the trash. “This never happened. If you bring this up again, Morales, so help me, I will write a lovely article about the benefits of F.E.A.S.T. that’ll keep you so busy you’ll miss your high school prom. Got it?”

Miles frowns. “I’m not planning to attend prom.”

“You’re missing the point.” MJ makes a note to come back to that later, when anger isn’t simmering in every syllable.

“Duly noted,” Miles backs towards the front door, offering a nervous smile. But Peter wouldn’t be training a new Spider-Man if he wasn’t equally courageous—or stupid. So before he leaves, Miles dares to ask, “Is it so bad if you’re pregnant, MJ? I don’t think I’ve ever heard Pete so excited.”

MJ’s anger deflates, replaced with cold guilt. She crosses her arms over her chest, stares at the ceiling. Of course. Of course Peter’s excited. She’s never met a man more prepared to be a dad… to be there for a kid the way his parents couldn’t be.

But she just… isn’t like that. They’re twenty-four. It feels like she just got a handle on her finances, just started making headway with her career, just got her goddamn life together. For Christ’s sake, this time last year, she and Peter weren’t even speaking with each other. It’s insane to her that three years out of college, nine months into their new relationship, they might have to contend with a baby.

She’d been so _careful_. But now the mornings of popping that little white pill have blurred in her mind, and she can’t remember if she rushed out the door without taking it. Can’t remember if this is her fault.

And that’s the scariest thing of all.

Miles is still staring, still waiting, and he looks so earnest that she heaves a sigh, pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s—not terrible. But we’re not ready for that. I’m not ready for that.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” Miles says, in that innocent way kids do sometimes. “Anyway, I gotta go, or I’ll be late to class. Let me know if you need anything else. Just… not like, female… things.” He shudders, and MJ snorts in spite of herself.

“Trust me, Miles. If I need anything, you’re not the one I’ll be calling. Peter owes me big for this stunt.” She kicks the trash can for good measure.

Miles laughs, a pitying sound. “So I might be the only Spider-Man on the streets for a few days?”

“Try a few weeks.” MJ rolls her eyes.

But after Miles leaves, after she dresses for work, nibbles on a few saltine crackers, nurses a bottle of coconut water, MJ’s eyes drift to the trash can. Knowing is better than panicking over something that might not be true, right?

And if it isn’t, curiosity will absolutely decimate her at work. She’s not sure she can face Peter again without knowing.

Thirty minutes later, two pink lines stare back at her.

 

* * *

 

She walks to work in a daze. Normally, she’d take the subway, but the movement of a train seems like a bad idea, and she’s already feeling claustrophobic. Although she’s usually aware of her surroundings, it’s one of those mornings where she’s standing in front of the Bugle before she even realizes she left Greenwich.

Robbie’s talking to Betty Brant near the elevators when the doors open. They both glance over, and Robbie blinks in surprise.

“Watson! Aren’t you supposed to be at the crime scene?”

He might as well be speaking a foreign language. “What crime scene?”

He huffs. “You’re supposed to be on top of this.”

Her whole body goes cold. Oh shit. He’s talking about another murder. How did she miss this news? A distant part of her remembers Peter’s early-morning alert, his sharp inhale, the way he leapt out the window faster than usual. She knew something had happened... and then Miles showed up.

She doesn’t remember much after Miles.  

“Oh, stop it, Robertson.” Betty slaps Robbie’s arm, then furrows her brows at MJ. “Honey, you okay? You look pale.”

“Just—recovering from a bug,” MJ says, already spinning towards the elevators. “I’m on it, Robbie. Where’s the body?”

“Corner of Doyers and Pell,” he replies, rubbing his arm with a dirty look at Betty.

MJ nods sharply and jams the button for the ground floor, cutting any further conversation. By the time she reaches the ground level, she’s found three articles about the latest kill. _Three_. The Times and two vanity magazines have leapt into the fray, offering bare-bones details that show their people are clearly afraid of a little confrontation.

And yet, because it’s _new_ news, their articles are trending and hers has vanished under the sheer quantity of daily content.

MJ can’t help the surge of anger that washes over her as she strides out of the Bugle’s lobby, onto the bustling street. Peter may be excited about this kid, but shit, it’s already happening. She’s already slipping behind, letting her personal life interfere with her professional one.

She calls Peter, trying to get a handle on her swinging emotions so she won’t scare him off. None of those other reporters have access to Spider-Man, and damn if she hasn't earned that advantage… even if, a few hours ago, she’d been determined to kick his ass.

He answers immediately, as if he’s been expecting a call. “MJ, I can explain—”

“Oh, you explained plenty when you sent _Miles_ to our front door with a pregnancy test,” MJ says, more than a little miffed. She pauses at a red light near a smaller side street, inches from jaywalking, remembers the baby almost too late. But she does, and she stops at the edge of the sidewalk. A truck roars past; nothing that would have hit her, but—it’s too close for comfort.

She hates that suddenly, she’s acting for two.

Peter laughs, hollowly. “I figured you wouldn’t kill the messenger.”

“Bold assumption.”

“D-Did you take it?”

MJ rubs her forehead, warding off the headache blooming there. “Not the time, Parker. The Bugle’s falling behind, and Robbie’s pissed. What’s the story with the new murder? Doyers and Pell, he said?”

“Yeah,” Peter’s voice is suddenly sober, so it must have been bad. “Same MO as yesterday: back alley murder, rape, strangulation, vicious beating. But just one woman this time.” He pauses, then adds, quietly, “A redhead. She looked a lot like you, MJ.”

MJ’s stomach churns. _Stop it,_ she tells the little parasite, but it doesn’t stop the uneasiness spreading from her gut. She forces her voice to remain casual, analytical. “Well, it wasn’t me. Did she have a Louis Vuitton purse with her?”

“Sure did. I tried to grab a picture, but that detective from yesterday was hanging out nearby. Couldn’t get close without the cops realizing I was sneaking around.”

“That’s okay. I think Anderson likes me, so I’ll double-check with him. Do you have anything else?”

Peter goes quiet for a second. “Um… I heard the coroner say the body’s been cold for a few hours, so she, ah… _sat_ a bit longer than the others. No one noticed until almost 5am, during the morning commute. But it dipped below freezing last night, so they’re hoping to find a bit more evidence from the autopsy.”

MJ thinks hard about how she’s going to get that report, already imagining her next conversation with Detective Anderson. He had that coffee stain on his shirt yesterday. Maybe she’ll bring him a cup. Might soften him up.

She realizes, almost half a block later, that Peter hasn’t said anything else. Doesn’t take much to recognize that brooding Parker silence. And what big event has happened today that might cause it? Dread spreads through her, but she asks, begrudgingly, “What’s on your mind, Pete?”

“Huh? Oh. Just thinking about Yuri.”

Oh, good. Yuri, MJ can handle. She releases a breath. “You reconsidering her request?”

“Kind of. Do you think it’s a good idea?” Peter sounds desperate now. Desperate for her opinion, for her voice of reason. It’s a welcome change from their relationship a year ago, and gratitude at that fact swells.

She carefully considers her response. “I mean, I don’t think it’s a bad idea. I’m sure the cops are on it, but all I heard before we broke up was how _intelligent_ and _astute_ Yuri was. I doubt that changed after she went rogue.” MJ weaves between a set of gawking tourists, musing now. “If she uses those tapes to capture a serial killer, doesn’t that justify your crime?”

“But what if that isn't all she uses them for?”

“She’s not your typical criminal, Pete. If she uses them for something else, it’ll probably be bringing some _other_ jerk to justice.”

“Or death,” Peter mutters bitterly. “It’s a fine line to walk, MJ. How do I know she hasn’t already tripped?”

It’s a good argument. MJ shrugs, even though he can’t see it. “You don’t. But you used to trust her, Pete. Something in your gut must have told you why, and I bet it’s telling you what to do now.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, then curses under his breath. “This day has kind of sucked. You sure you can’t tell me some good news?”

He leaves it purposefully vague, but they both know what he’s getting at. And realistically, it’s not like she’ll be keeping this secret much longer. At least not from him.

She heaves a sigh, turning the corner onto Pell Street. “It was positive.” He sucks in a breath, but she isn’t done: “Sometimes I think you’re too smart for your own good, Parker.”

“And too virile, apparently,” he says, lowering his voice to sound more masculine.

Christ, what a dork. MJ snorts. “You won’t be bragging about that when I’m kicking you out of bed at 2am to change a diaper.” Joking about it feels… wrong, like a huge piece of her life _hasn’t_ splintered into shards. But it’s already happened, and this is definitely one of those _laugh so you don’t cry_ moments.

Peter doesn’t seem to have that problem. Excitement brims from his words. “Wait. We’re keeping the baby?”

That stops her, flat-out, so abrupt a businessman nearly slams into her, then curses her until he’s halfway across the street. She ignores him with practiced ease, gripping the phone a bit harder.

“What?”

“I just—I don’t know. You didn’t seem very happy about the idea of it. I wrote a whole essay in my mind to persuade you, five paragraphs, strong thesis, the works, but… it’s your body, MJ. It’s gotta be your decision.” He sounds quiet now, almost scared.

Scared of what she’ll say next.

She never even considered abortion. All morning, she’s been running logistics, crunching numbers. Even in the darkest moments, she’d just bemoaned the loss of their not-marriage-no-kids relationship. The loss of her single, untethered life.

But getting rid of the baby never even crossed her mind.

MJ grips her stomach, but can’t bring herself to laugh off the notion.

“I—I think I need to think about it.” The words tumble from her mouth before she realizes it, before she can swallow them for something more appropriate. She realizes how that sounds, then adds, “If that’s okay.”

Peter tries—and fails—to hide his misery under a forced casual tone. “Y-Yeah. I understand. Of course.”

It makes her feel terrible. Can she really do that to him?

But, likewise, can he really expect this of her?

“I gotta go, Pete. I’m almost at the crime scene. But—I love you, okay?”

“Love you too, MJ. No matter what,” he whispers back.

She hangs up before she can start crying.

 

* * *

 

It takes a few minutes pressed against the rough bricks of a brownstone before she feels composed enough to do her job. Another minute and a half to stop by a street vendor and buy a cup of black coffee, stuff some creams and sugar into her purse. Then, an easygoing smile plastered on her face, she strolls to the crime scene.

Just like yesterday, the body’s already gone. This time, though, she’s too late to even photograph the blood; the cops are removing the barricades as she approaches.

But Detective Anderson is still standing there. He glances over his shoulder, sees her, and moves to intercept with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Ah, Ms. Watson. What a pleasure.”

“Detective. Surprised to see me?”

He’s a bit more composed today—no stain, no five o’clock shadow—but it doesn’t change the way he glances at his watch, then at her. “I’m surprised you weren’t sneaking under the barricades hours ago, if I’m being frank.”

MJ smirks. “Please. I would never.” She offers the coffee. “Thought you might like a cup. I heard it was an early morning.”

A gleam overtakes his eyes. “Black?”

“As a devil’s soul,” MJ replies, handing it over.

He sniffs it, then takes a tentative sip. “Good stuff. Thanks. For press, you’re not so bad.”

MJ raises an eyebrow.

Anderson glances over his shoulder, stepping back to allow her full examination of the crime scene. But at this point, there’s not much left to investigate. The disappointment must be written over her face, because he presses his lips together. “Trust me when I say you'd want to skip this one.”

“My editor would have preferred I didn’t,” MJ replies, snapping a few photos of the still-wet concrete, the power-washed dumpster, the rough brick walls. She glances up, half-expecting to see Peter peeking over the roof, but he must be giving her some space after their conversation.

Anderson hooks his thumb around a belt loop, steers the conversation in a different direction. “I did some research on you last night. Read your article. Some of your posts from Symkaria.”

“And how’d I hold up?” MJ asks, drily.

“Well enough that I convinced the Public Relations office you should be our go-to reporter for this case.”

MJ freezes, then spins back towards him. “What? Seriously?”

Anderson’s lips quirk upwards. He seems to thoroughly enjoy throwing MJ off her game. “Have I made a mistake in assuming you’d be interested?”

“Of course not.” She lowers her camera, raises an eyebrow. What she wants to say is “why me _,_ ” but that’s… less than professional. She carefully restructures her question. “But now I’m curious. What did I do differently?”

“You didn’t leave when I threatened you with arrest,” Detective Anderson replies, sipping his coffee. His gaze sobers as he glances at the murder scene. “I’m going to be honest with you, Watson. New York hasn’t had a high-profile serial killer in almost a decade, but this guy… he’s shaping up to be some kind of horror. My whole team is working on this, but we need help from the press if we’re going to avoid an all-out panic.”

Well, that seems a little dramatic. MJ crosses her arms. “I find it hard to believe that one man could cause more fear than a city-wide plague, or Ryker’s prisoners rioting in the streets. New Yorkers are pretty tough, Anderson.”

The detective frowns. “You’re underestimating things. Those events nearly brought New York to its knees, but they were each caused by one man. Whether it’s Li, Octavius, Hammerhead, or this new killer, every catastrophic event begins with a gentle nudge.”

He has a point. MJ makes a few notes in her phone, then meets his gaze defiantly. “Okay. I’ll take the exclusive, but just so we're clear, you don’t control what I write. If there’s an unflattering truth that needs to be shared, I’m going to share it.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else. All the PDNY wants is someone to clamp down on the fear-mongering. Just the facts. Not inflated ideas about the city’s lack of safety, especially for those turning a profit.”

MJ sticks out her hand. “Deal.”

He shakes, his grip just as strong as yesterday.

“Come to the Chinatown precinct in an hour. I’ll make sure you have enough content to regain media attention.” With a flick of his fingers, the detective follows the other cops out of the alley, into their squad cars.

A wave of giddiness sweeps over MJ as she snaps a few more photos, then calls Peter.

  

* * *

 

 

"Hey. How busy are you?”

Peter sounds perplexed. “Um. Like, on a scale of 'stopping a runaway train' to 'plucking cats out of trees?'”

MJ laughs before she can stop herself. “Yeah. Exactly that scale.”

“Well, then, I’m solidly 'webbing a mugger to a wall.'”

“Tell him I said hi.”

“My girlfriend says ‘hi,’” Peter says, the words somewhat muffled. “Also, she’s very disappointed in you and wants you to stop your life of crime.”

MJ’s lips curl into a smile. “Good pep talk.”

“Thanks. I think I might pick up motivational speaking.” He grunts, and then she hears _schwick-schwick_ in the background. “So what’s up?” He sounds cautious now, as if he's convinced it only took her an hour to decide she wants an abortion.

She hasn’t decided anything yet—that’s going to take a lot more rumination than she has time. She strolls away from the crime scene, checking her watch. “Well, the detective working this case asked me to be the exclusive reporter. So that’s… interesting.”

“You mispronounced ‘amazing,’” Peter says. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “I’m psyched. He’s offering me an exclusive look at the evidence, so I can tell the truth without inflating fear. But I’m worried he’s going to censor the details to make the PDNY look better.”

Peter releases a breath, and the web-slinging stops. She can imagine him perching on a rooftop, admiring the city while they talk. “Well, it’s a possibility. But it’s not going to stop you from taking advantage.”

“True. I’m heading to the precinct now. But I was wondering if you have time to do those family interviews, reporter-style? I’d really like another facet of this story to work, but I don’t think I’ll have time to track them down today.”

“Anything for you,” Peter says, too quickly.

Almost like he’s buttering her up.

MJ presses her lips together. “You really want this kid, don’t you?”

“It’s an eleven paragraph essay now. The thesis is still solid, but I’m worried my argument has strayed from factual logic to pathetic blubbering,” he replies. It’s a half-hearted attempt at a joke, but she’d have to be deaf to miss the desperation in his voice.

She softens a bit. Voice of reason. Voice of logic. “You don’t even have a job, Pete. What are we going to do when I’m on maternity leave?”

“They do pay you for maternity leave. Weird concept, I know.” When she doesn’t reply, he adds, “But really, Oscorp has been begging me for years—”

“No. Peter, you can’t go to Oscorp,” MJ says sharply. He hates that place. And she’s not too fond of it either, not after discovering what Norman did with Harry. The devastation of that afternoon never fully went away.

Peter falls silent for a moment, then says, “Is anyone financially ready for kids, MJ? We’ll make it work. We make everything work.”

She sighs. It’s a nitpicky point, and they both know it. Peter’s so smart she can name seven companies who’d trip over themselves to hire him, starting with Stark Industries. But when he moved in, they both agreed she’d handle the finances and he’d handle the city-saving.

And honestly, the feminist part of her _adores_ being the breadwinner of the pair.

“I’ve still got to think about this, Pete.”

“I know.”

Just like that. God, she loves him. “I’ll text you the victims' addresses. Let me know if you need help.”

“Please. I’m naturally charming.”

She groans. “Just… no jokes. You’ve lost more than a few sources that way.”

“One. One source that way.” He thinks. “Well, maybe two. Really, it’s just easier being Spider-Man. Everyone loves the jokes when I’m Spider-Man.”

“Oh, Tiger, we’re going to have to talk when this is over.”

She hangs up to his spluttering indignation.

 

* * *

 

The precinct is bustling. Even with Fisk gone, even with the Maggia in check, crime in this city never stops. Anderson added her to the visitor list, so she’s directed to the Major Crimes unit with little trouble.

He’s talking with a middle-aged woman, dressed just as sharp. Her face is all angles, and she glowers at MJ when she approaches.

“The reporter, I presume?” the woman drawls.

“Mary Jane Watson, Daily Bugle,” MJ says without a hint of derision. She even flashes a pretty smile, one that seems to do absolutely nothing to the stone-faced detective.

Anderson, on the other hand, chuckles. “She’ll be an asset to us, Holmes.”

“We’ll see,” Holmes says. She’s wearing a shield at her hip, mirroring Anderson’s getup, but her rank is clearly displayed on the badge around her neck. Captain. This is the woman who took over Wantanabe’s position. When she stands, she seems to tower over MJ. “I don’t like reporters, Ms. Watson, and I especially don’t like _investigative_ reporters. Leave the detective work to the police.”

“Of course, ma’am. I’m merely here to tell the victims’ stories.”

That surprises the captain. It’s a microsecond of emotion, but her eyes widen just a bit before rearranging into calm detachment. “The victims. Interesting take.”

“Well, a serial killer hardly deserves the coverage,” MJ says, curtly. Anderson gestures at her, as if saying, _I told you so_.

Holmes hums under her breath, sizing MJ up, then replies, “One thing we can agree on. Anderson, I want that report by 4pm.” And she sweeps past MJ, strolling towards the elevator without so much as a goodbye.

“Lovely, isn’t she?” Anderson says, with a modicum of humor.

MJ shrugs. “To be expected. Reporters are rarely well-received . What do you have for me, Anderson?”

“I figured you could get some photos of the purses,” he replies, pushing off the desk. He closes a file as he goes, but not before MJ catches a glimpse of a photo: a young, redheaded woman, skull set at an odd angle, neck heavily bruised, body utterly mangled.

MJ’s stomach flips, and she draws a deep breath past the nausea. Peter had been right. “Bad” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Oblivious to what she saw, Anderson leads her to the elevator, which they ride to Evidence. He fills the silence with menial questions. “So, you live in the city?”

“Yep. Over in Greenwich. You?”

“Queens. Born and raised. Morning commute’s terrible.”

“That’s why I don’t bother with it,” MJ replies. “Easier to take the subway a few blocks.”

He nods as the doors open, then leads her into a tiny room lined with metal grating. Another officer mans the desk, but waves him in with barely a glance at Anderson’s ID. “The box is in room B.”

“Thanks, Mal,” Anderson replies, clapping his shoulder as they pass.

Room B is basically a cinderblock cubicle with one metal table pressed against the far wall. On it is a box brimming with dark brown purses. Anderson offers her gloves, then carefully unpacks the bags.

“We’re trying to determine who sold these models, but they’re knockoffs. Good ones, but harder to track,” Anderson says, irritation in his tone. “It’s really the only lead we have right now. Thought you could weigh in.”

“Why, since I’m a woman?”

Anderson snorts. “Am I wrong to say you have more expertise with female fashion accessories than I would?”

MJ shrugs, but in truth, she’s itching to examine these purses. Doing it legally, under the supervision of the case’s lead detective, just makes it that much sweeter. She squints at the four purses in a row, then each individually.

Four identical bags. Four very different women. Their blood staining the cheap leather is nearly impossible to ignore, and if Room B wasn’t ice-cold, she’d probably already be heaving. Jesus, having a kid has made her weak. It might be time to contact a doctor about morning sickness.

Focus. She gestures towards one, a question in her eyes, and Anderson nods. With the gloves on, she won’t taint the evidence, and she imagines they’ve already swabbed for the killer’s DNA. Still, she holds the purse delicately, turning it this way and that, peering inside with morbid curiosity.

“We’ve cased the merchants in Chinatown, but they’re not keen on talking with cops,” Anderson says, filling the silence. “As if a major crimes detective would care about back alley knock-offs.”

“They’re not knock-offs,” MJ says, slowly.

“What?”

She'd done research last night, in the bare hours between her nap and when Peter strolled through the door. She watched so many videos on recognizing fakes that it almost seems too easy to pin this, now. “They’re real Louis Vuitton. The handles are darker than usual, which comes with natural age of a true Vuitton. The stitching is perfectly even, a trademark of the brand. And I bet this date code would confirm it.” She points to a tiny leather tag stamped with RE878. A quick check proves the other three bags have the same date code. 

Anderson's eyes are wide. He whistles. “Shit. I missed that.”

MJ plucks off a glove, tugging out her phone. No service this far into the building, but she connects to the visitor WIFI easily enough. A quick google search confirms what she suspected. “This is a really old model, made in Italy in 1987. Absolutely not what they’re selling in stores these days.” A thrill races through her. "Now I'm really curious to know how these girls got a hold of the same model, from the same year."

"We're going to need a bit of tact dealing with this, Watson. If you write about this lead, people might think it's safe to walk around after dark, just because they don't have this purse."

"Maybe it is," MJ says. 

Anderson huffs. "Are you willing to bet another woman's life on it?"

No. Of course not. MJ grumbles under her breath, then says, "I'll be careful. We can mention the purses without spilling all the details. In the mean time, I'll do some more research, see if I can't find where these bags were sold."

Detective Anderson barks a laugh. “Why don’t you leave the real investigating to the professionals? It’s what I get paid for, you know.”

“And what do you think _I_ get paid for?”

“Good point. But seriously, Watson. Write what you will, but leave the detective work to me. It’s dangerous out there.” He doesn’t say what everyone seems to be thinking—that MJ’s a prime target, simply because of her age, appearance, and overall nosiness.

And now there’s a baby to think about.

Irritation simmers at the thought, but MJ holds up her hands. “Of course, Detective. Anything you say, Detective.”

He rolls his eyes. “Smartass.”

They inspect the purses for a few more minutes, but nothing else turns up. MJ asks about other belongings, but the most recent victim didn’t have a wallet or identification, and the other three only had loyalty cards, a few credit cards, and some other miscellaneous items. Not useless, but not a lead like the purses are.

MJ takes pictures of the cards in each woman’s wallet, then says, “I want a copy of the file you have upstairs.”

Anderson balks. “Ah, sorry. That’s not for press.”

“How am I supposed to write a new story to regain public attention if I don’t have access to your interviews and case files?”

It’s a lie; with Peter’s interviews and the lead on the purses, MJ has plenty to work with. But Anderson’s been pretty forthcoming with information, and she mostly wants to see what else he’ll agree to.

Not this, apparently. He clenches his jaw and crosses his arms. “Nope. I can’t bend here. The captain will have my ass.”

She shrugs, drops it just as fast. “If you say so.” Already, she’s thinking—ironically—if she could ask Peter the same thing Yuri did. Spider-Man could easily sneak in here and copy that file. And what could they do with that information? 

But it’s a battle for another day.

“This is good stuff, anyway. Thanks for the insight today.”

Anderson leads her out of Evidence. “You were more helpful than I was. Just do me a favor? Get my good side when you write your article tonight.”

MJ laughs. “Sure thing.” But in her mind, she’s far, far from the precinct already. In her mind, she’s already amassing what she and Pete have found out, maybe what Yuri's found out too, and a surge of pride bursts from her chest. 

They’re really getting somewhere.

They’re going to take down a murderer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now know more about Louis Vuitton fakes than I ever EVER cared to. That's how much I love you guys. 
> 
> On another note of love, I have gifted you all with 5,000 words as a soft apology, mostly because I'm not sure when I'll manage to write the next chapter. T.T I just got my novel back from my agent today, so I have to dive into edits this week, and on Monday I start real estate school (because why the hell not), and then on the 17th I'm in a wedding. (Not my wedding. Just a bridesmaid. XD )
> 
> LONG STORY SHORT I'mma be busy. 
> 
> But I will also try very, very hard to at least churn out a few thousand words for you by this time next week. Fingers crossed. XD 
> 
> YOU ALL ROCK AND YOUR REVIEWS GIVE ME LIFE. THANK YOUUUU.


	4. The Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a nice night, MJ gets disturbing news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: None! This is mostly fluff before the drama. XD

Shockingly, Peter’s at home when she returns from the Bugle.

Of course, she isn’t expecting him to be standing _right by the door_ , and she’s nose-deep in the budding stats of her second article on the mysterious murderer, who she’s dubbed the Chinatown Killer.

(It’s catching on, which is somewhat gratifying. The more attention she calls to this asshole, the better.)

But it means that she’s not really looking where she’s going, so she smacks head-long into Peter before she can react. And damn it all if smacking into Peter isn’t like smacking into a fucking brick wall.

He recoils, backpedals, then surges forward to try and steady her. “Oh, shit! Sorry, _sorry_. My fault.”

“Are you that excited to see me? Waiting by the door like some lost—” But then she stops short, takes him in for the first time. Her jaw drops.

He’s… dressed. And not in the traditional Peter Parker Plaid. Tonight, he’s wearing a white button-down, long sleeves perfectly folded to his elbows. A black blazer hangs over a nearby chair. His hair’s styled—borrowed her mousse again, she sees, but damn it if she can’t appreciate that—and he’s holding a bouquet of red roses.

Her heart thumps in her chest, but she forces her tone to remain level. “Your thesis statement, I presume?”

His awkwardness vanishes in one abrupt laugh. “What? No. That’s a sixteen page essay. I emailed it to you.”

“Sixteen pages—” she chokes. “What happened to eleven paragraphs?”

“That was hours ago, MJ. Keep up.” He grins, then tugs at his collar with his free hand. “I just… I wanted you to know, with certainty, that whatever you choose, I’m still going to love you like crazy. And you’ve been working hard and I haven’t really seen you eat much in the last couple days, so I thought maybe we could go to dinner.”

A year ago, MJ would have analyzed his statement for a hint that he didn’t trust her to take care of herself. Ten hours ago, she’d have ground her teeth and wrote this off as a simple ploy to guilt her into keeping the baby.

But now? Now she’s tired and stressed and suddenly _ravenous_ , and Peter’s offering a night of pampering. If he says there are no strings attached, she’s inclined to believe him.

So she takes the roses and inhales a deep whiff of the gorgeous, flowery scent. Not much smells lovely in New York, but these? They certainly make her pause. She pulls Peter down for a kiss, then kisses him again for good measure, and whispers against his lips, “I’d love dinner.”

He grins, his hands snaking around her waist. “Good. Because I made reservations.”

“Wow. First time for everything.”

A blush creeps over his cheeks. “It was _one_ night, MJ. We were young and stupid. Cut me some slack.”

“Oh, Tiger, I cut you all the slack in the world. It’s that asshole waiter I was ready to clock.” MJ winks, sniffs the flowers again, and skirts around him. “Give me a minute to get ready.”

“You’re feeling okay for dinner out? I can cook—”

“No!” MJ exclaims. “Dear god, no. Let’s eat _real_ food.”

Peter clutches his heart. “Your words wound me.”

“Your food wounds more than that.” MJ jerks a thumb at the scorch mark on her ceiling, right above the stove. Peter’s blush spreads, and she laughs and kisses him one more time. “Five minutes.” Then she considers his styled appearance and amends, “Maybe ten.”

It takes twenty, but then he’s whisking her down the elevator, out the doors, into the brisk New York evening. It’s cold enough that they both upgraded to thick jackets—his admittedly heavier than hers—and they press shoulder to shoulder as they stroll down the street. For a brief moment, it’s like they’re nineteen, giggling and starry-eyed at their new relationship.

It sours quickly.

His phone dings, that same soft alert he’s been getting all week. He groans, fishing it out of his pocket. MJ peeks around his arm to see YURI on his caller ID.

He silences it with a huff.

“What if she had something important to say?” MJ says, pressing her lips into a thin line.

“We’re on date night.” When she barks a laugh, a pointed reminder that Peter never cared about interrupting date night before this, he blushes and amends, “She’s calling about the Public Works office. Those tapes.”

“And you’re still refusing to get them?”

“Yes. No…?” Peter runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“Definitive.”

“Come on. You’re talking to that detective; couldn’t you ask if the PDNY’s already on that? If they are, it doesn’t seem like Yuri needs—”

MJ sighs. “I think you should get them.”

Peter nearly stops walking. A few pushy New Yorkers shove past them as he faces MJ. “What happened to ‘not telling me what to do?’” He says it almost desperately, though, as if he’s dying to know why she thinks he should.

She winds her arm through his, forcing him to keep walking. Her stomach’s grumbling, and she really _does_ want dinner tonight. “To be honest, Tiger, you’re floundering here. And this situation doesn’t have a lot of wiggle room.” She lowers her voice, somber now. “They have no idea who the fourth victim is. The redhead. Her story might never be told if we don’t do something. If you don’t do something.”

He flinches. “You’re saying I have a responsibility to help Yuri.”

“I’m saying she’s an astute woman who used to hunt killers for a living. And you’re a guy with unique talents. If there’s even a chance the two of you could pool your intellect and catch this guy, you owe it to these women to do it.”

He goes quiet for a moment, which is all fine and dandy, except MJ still has no idea where they’re going. They stop at the street corner, and she pokes his shoulder. “Hey. You promised me food.”

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “I picked a great place in Chinatown--"

She makes a face. “That’s a joke, right?”

He grins.

 

* * *

 

They go to a steakhouse. It’s shockingly fancy, and unlike their first date—where they were laughed out of two restaurants and chased out of a third—, they’re welcomed with broad smiles. Turns out Peter did make reservations, and good ones at that. The host leads them to a table by the window, complete with a flickering candle and two champagne flutes.

MJ raises an eyebrow after Peter pulls back her chair. “You’re not going to propose to me tonight, are you?”

The host stifles a snort, spinning before Peter can see his mirth.

Peter, on the other hand, goes red as a tomato. “N-No! That wasn’t even on my mind! Although, with the—I mean, if—if you wanted to, we could—”

“Sit down, Parker,” MJ laughs.

He sits, still red-faced. But as he pulls in his chair, and she sweeps her napkin onto her lap, he says, “M-Maybe we should get married. Would you want that?”

“Someday. Not now. Not thinking like we are,” MJ says, putting a hand over her stomach unconsciously. If Peter pops the question, it shouldn’t be a panicked decision the day she discovers she’s pregnant. Nothing would ruin the moment faster.

Peter bobs his head. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” He swallows, tugging at his collar. “Have you thought about what you want to do? With—with the baby?”

It takes a lot of effort for him to ask, she can tell. He’s trying so hard not to stifle her. And yet, her heart still thrums in her chest, and she rubs her forehead to ease the headache that’s been semi-present all day.

Part of her wants to pretend this isn’t scaring her shitless. The other part just wants to shoulder some of this burden... and that part's more insistent.

So she meets his gaze and admits, quietly, “Pete, I’m kind of terrified about this.”

“About having the baby? Or… or aborting it?”

Both. They’re both equally horrifying to her. She nods, not trusting herself to speak, and then a waitress comes by with steaming bread and a bright smile.

Peter doesn’t drink much, but now MJ can’t drink at all, so they both order seltzer water. Peter actually hates seltzer, but it’s cute he’s trying to reciprocate. The waitress beams at them both and strolls off, leaving them to the conversation MJ wishes they didn’t have to have.

“I don’t think I can abort it,” she finally says.

Peter’s whole body seems to sag. “Oh, thank god,” he whispers, then seems to realize what he said. “I mean, that’s your decision, and I’ll support you.”

She forces a laugh. “Wow. Convincing.” Then she draws a breath. “I think I might need to hear some of that sixteen page essay, though. What makes you so sure we can do this? My job, your job, our life… everything’s going to be different.”

“Yeah,” he replies, but he doesn’t seem scared by it.

She frowns. “You won’t have as much time to patrol.”

“I wouldn’t bother.”

That stills her. Her eyebrows shoot under her bangs, and her jaw drops. “What? But—” she glances around, leans closer to him, lowers her voice to a bare whisper. “But Spider-Man is everything to you, Pete.”

“Maybe at one point. Now _you’re_ everything to me.” He takes her hand, and it’s so mushy she might gag.

Or cry.

“No. No, I can’t be the reason you stop helping people. This kid can’t do that to you.” Her voice is fierce, almost angry.

Peter looks surprised. “There's more than one way to help people, MJ." Now he rubs his neck, abashed. "I never told you this, but I was going to hang up the mask last year. Fisk. Fisk was my stopping point, and then Li rose up, then Otto, then the Maggia… I’m starting to think it’s never going to stop. And—I don’t want to look back on my life and wish I’d taken time for something else.”

MJ can’t fathom it. She’s just gotten into the game, just started making her mark in the reporting world. Her name turns heads, her articles trend, and everything she reports makes a difference. It's a thrill she only hoped for five years ago. 

For Peter to be acting like he’s already tired of that thrill…

But then, he’s been doing it almost a decade, now. Eons longer than MJ’s done her thing. She’s supported him from the sidelines for so long, it’s nothing short of invigorating to step into the limelight herself. But Peter isn’t there anymore.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” she says, brows knitting together.

“Surprise?” He shifts, as if he’s nervous of her response. “I kept telling myself to wait for a sign. This seems like a pretty big one. And this way, I can be home with the baby, and you don’t have to stop reporting.”

It’s such a far cry from their positions a year ago, when he was begging her to take feature pieces instead of tackling the Kingpin. The implicit trust makes her feel like they _can_ do this.

Maybe they should.

Peter fills the silence, rambling now. “And you know, it’s not like the city’s going to be left alone. You should see Miles on patrol, MJ. He’s so smart, and so great at helping people. And you know he’s graduating this year, and if he ever really needs a second body, I can—”

“Stop, Pete. I get it,” MJ holds up a hand, then smiles. It’s bare-bones, laced with the fear and doubt she’s still feeling, but it’s enough that he smiles back. She draws a breath. “If you think this is the right move, then… okay. We’ll do it.”

Peter’s whole face alights. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, laughing at his enthusiasm. “Yeah, I think so.” If this is what he really wants, she can’t be the one to deprive him of it.

And then, blinking hard, he whispers, “If it’s a girl, can we name her May?”

MJ’s breath vanishes. She pulls him closer, kisses him hard across the small table. “Of course, Pete. I love that name.”

 

* * *

 

After dinner, he leaves her in the apartment with leftover chocolate cake and a cozy blanket. MJ feels no shame eating the whole freaking thing, savoring the rich taste while simultaneously telling herself she’s _eating for two_.

Suddenly, the thought is a lot more gratifying.

The news is running a talk show about the Chinatown Killer, but they’re mostly rehashing what MJ wrote about hours earlier. She settles in to watch it when someone knocks on the door.

And opens it a second later.

Miles steps inside, once again covering his eyes. “Ah, MJ, it’s just me. Don’t freak out!”

She hooks an arm over the back of the couch, swallowing a laugh. “Why do you always think I’ll be doing something scandalous when you come over here?”

His face definitely darkens into a blush this time, even as he checks the door closed behind him. “What? No, I just—privacy, you know? You didn’t know I was coming, so—”

“You could text me if you’re that lonely."

“I’m not lonely! Peter asked—” he clamps his mouth shut, stays awkwardly in the kitchen. Once again, he’s holding a plastic bag from CVS. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it’s for.

She heaves a sigh. “What’d he tell you to bring me this time?”

Miles offers her the bag. “Nothing so embarrassing. Promise. I tried to tell him he should probably handle this, but—well, then he told me the news. Congratulations, by the way!” His smile is broad and bright, and MJ can’t help but smile back, even if hers is a little forced.

“Thanks. Still getting used to the idea.” She fishes into the bag to find a bottle of B6 vitamins. Her brows furrow, and Miles steps further into the living room, excited now.

“They’re for nausea. Safe during pregnancy. My mom recommended them.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s a nurse. She also thought I knocked someone up, which was… awkward.”

MJ snorts. “Bet that was a fun conversation.”

“Probably should have just googled it,” Miles admits. “I think she thinks Gwen is—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Ah, never mind.”

“Oooh, Gwen,” MJ pats the couch, curling her legs under her. He sits, perching on the opposite edge. They’ve never been quite _close_ , per say. He’s run these errands for Peter in the past, but without Spider-Man as a buffer conversation, they haven’t really chatted one on one. It’s kind of a shame, since he seems like a cool kid. And in that moment, something whispers in her mind, _no time like the present_ , so she adds, “Tell me more.”

Miles fidgets. “There’s nothing to tell. She’s just a girl at my school.”

“And…”

“And she doesn’t want to date,” he replies, flatly.

MJ winces. “Sounds like you’ve already asked.”

Miles draws a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. Kind of sucks I can’t tell her I’m the other Spider-Man. Like—Peter told you! He says he ‘wooed you with webslinging and heroism.’ I wish I could try that with Gwen.”

The air quotes don’t help Peter’s cause. MJ snorts, bursting into laughter. “Oh my god _,_ what a liar. _Miles_. Peter didn’t tell me. I figured it out myself, because he’s not as sneaky as he thinks. And he did not _woo_ me with it.” She rolls her eyes, so exaggerated it feels like she might roll them right out of her skull.

But _really_. Webslinging and herosim? Come on, Peter.

Miles looks doubtful. “I dunno. He was pretty insistent about the wooing. I remember, because I thought it was weird he kept repeating that word.”

“Did he happen to mention our high school prom during that conversation?” When Miles shakes his head, MJ raises an eyebrow. “He asked me, and I got all dolled up, right? Well, we’re walking up the steps to the school, and an alert hits his phone that Fisk is up to something. So he _leaves me_ to confront him. He left me at my own prom, Miles. Corsage on my wrist and everything.”

Miles’ eyes are wide. “That… seems pretty stupid.”

“Beyond stupid. Especially since Fisk beat him to a pulp, so I spent the second half of my night playing nurse. Blood all over my dress,” MJ reaches for her cup of tea, sitting on the coffee table. “So, no. He did not _woo_ me with webslinging. And I will be talking to him about this.”

“Wait, don’t tell him I said that!” Miles looks aghast. “He might stop training me!”

MJ almost tells Miles the truth. Almost mentions that Peter is thinking of quitting, of passing the mantle to this teenager. But… it’s not her news to tell. Peter may be full of stories when it comes to this kid, but they have a relationship MJ can’t hope to mimic. If Miles is going to learn he’ll be the only Spider-Man, he should get it from Peter.

So she just smiles, slyly, and says, “Okay, fine. Our secret. But just because you brought me vitamins. It almost makes up for this morning.”

Miles flinches. “Again, _not_ my idea.”

MJ laughs. “I believe you. Tell me more about Gwen. Why doesn’t she want to date you?”

“She’s… kind of dating someone else,” Miles mutters.

“Wow. And you just asked her out? Bold.”

“Her boyfriend’s a jerk! And she’s way too smart for him. Did you know she already submitted an article to Science Today about single-cell analysis in quantitative biology?” His eyes go distant, dazed, as he talks, and MJ has to stifle a smirk. Boy has it _bad_.

And really, this Gwen girl could do worse.

“Impressive. What’s her last name?”

Miles suddenly looks suspicious. “Why?”

MJ flashes a pretty smile. “Oh, I’m going to track her down and start a casual conversation about you, of course.”

“W-What? No! Please, MJ, you can’t, I’ll die—”

She laughs, has to physically clamp down the reminder that, as an investigative reporter, she could have Gwen’s last name in a few minutes if she wanted. But mostly she just likes toying with this poor kid. “I’m joking. Calm down before you have a heart attack.”

He gulps a breath, scowling at her. “You’re mean when you’re pregnant.”

“Mean when I’m not, too.”

“I noticed,” he pushes off the couch, shaking his head. “I think that’s my cue to leave. Make sure you tell Pete I brought you those vitamins.”

 _As if you're not going to call Peter the second you leave_ , MJ thinks. But she nods and sips her tea and says, “Will do. Thanks for bringing it. I actually appreciate _this_ gift.”

“Mom says you can take up to 200mg, but she recommends starting with just two tablets a few times per day. It should help.” Miles shoulders his knapsack again, and MJ glimpses a hint of black sticking out the corner. His spider-suit. When he pauses at the door and says, “Ah, Peter isn’t doing anything he needs help with, right?” she knows exactly what he means.

“He’s… running an errand for a friend,” MJ replies, cryptically. Who knows how much Peter told him—or plans to tell him—about Yuri and their arrangement? She has to be careful with information when the recipient could track Peter through the city... especially when the recipient is technically not an adult yet, and would be going unsupervised. “He’ll be back on patrol tomorrow night, I’m sure. Go home to Gwen.”

Miles scowls. “I’m not going—you know she doesn’t live with me, right?”

“Not yet, anyway,” MJ teases.

He throws up his hands and mutters, “Congratulations again,” and skedaddles out of the apartment like it’s on fire.

MJ snickers.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up around 3am, per the usual this week, but this time it’s to the mattress dipping as Peter crawls into bed, not nausea like before. It takes her mind a while to fight the cloud of exhaustion, but she blinks blearily into the darkness as Peter gets settled.

“How’d it go?” she mumbles.

“Fine.” He kisses her forehead, snuggling closer to her. He must have showered, because he smells fantastic, and his skin is hotter than usual. (If she thought _she_ liked hot showers, it’s nothing compared to Peter. The first time she jumped in with him, she almost burned herself, and he was apologizing for days.)

MJ allows him to drape an arm over her waist, snuggling into the crook under his chin. “So you got the tapes?”

Peter sighs. “Yeah. I got them.”

“And the world didn’t implode?”

“Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated,” he mutters, petulantly.

She grins. “Did you give them to Yuri?”

Peter is quiet for a long moment. Long enough she thinks he might not answer her, but he finally says, “Yeah. She’s looking over them now. I hope this was the right move, MJ. I just hope she can find something.”

“We wouldn’t know until we tried, right?” MJ draws a deep, happy breath, whispers against the quiet of the dark room, “Thanks for sending Miles. The vitamins he brought are working wonders.”

Peter inhales. “Yeah, what the heck did you do to him? He called me all in a tizzy.”

“Is that a professional Spider-Man term?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. And I'd appreciate you not bullying my assistant."

MJ turns her back against Peter's chest, and he adjusts easily. The position is remarkably comfortable, and she's happy to stay here forever. It takes a minute to remember what he just accused her of. "I gave him love advice. That's not bullying."

"You’re impossible.”

“You mispronounced awesome.”

Peter laughs, his chest rumbling against her back. “Guess I did. Go back to bed, MJ. Love you.”

“Love you too. Thanks for tonight,” she yawns.

He kisses her hair. “I mean, you paid, so—”

“Take the compliment, Tiger,” she says, words slurring with sleep. “See you tomorrow.”

"Night."

But when the early-morning light hits MJ’s face several hours later, Peter’s side of the bed is cold. She’s not sure when he left, but when she checks her phone, an ominous text from Detective Anderson is top of her notifications.

_Another murder… and this time, he left a note._

With a gasp, MJ propels herself out of bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY AN UPDATE. Man I'm good. 
> 
> Just kidding. XD My agent accidentally edited an old version of my novel, so I have a few extra days while she fixes the right version instead. Her mistake is your gain! Still starting real estate school on Monday, though, so we'll see what happens once that begins. 
> 
> I know this feels like a nonsense chapter, but I am in LOVE with the gentle romance Peter and MJ have in this imagined future. Like, so so so love. Also MILES. <3 
> 
> ... Plus, shit's about to hit the fan, so consider this your breather. XD


	5. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ pitches an idea to Peter, and he is Not On Board with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: mention of murder scene, rape, blood, all that fun stuff.

“What’s the news?” MJ asks, phone pressed to her cheek. Her breath fogs as she runs; it’s taken a chilly turn for the weekend, and she left her coat at home, but luckily sprinting through New York generates its own kind of heat. “Anything?”

Peter sounds tired. Tired and sad. MJ mentally tallies the hours of sleep he’s gotten in the last few days, but it’s a despairingly low number. “I mean, same thing. Another murder. Chinatown. Left in an alley, bruised, beaten, dignity stripped away.” He sounds bitter now. “Yuri doesn’t have anything for me. Damn it, MJ, how are we supposed to fight this guy?”

“I bet his note will leave a clue,” she replies, breathlessly. Get to the crime scene, talk with Anderson. That’s the only thing on her agenda this morning.

Peter inhales sharply. “He left a note? I didn’t see that.”

“Did you beat the cops there?”

“No, but usually they take photos of the crime scene first.”

MJ huffs. “I bet they did, and you missed it. Anderson says the killer left a note. I’m on my way there now.”

“You sound out of breath,” Peter remarks, then adds slyly, “Do you need a webslinger’s assistance? I hear it’s the fastest method around town.”

“I’ll remember that next time you catch a ride on the top of a bus,” MJ snorts.

The morning commute is just getting started, and the streets are inching into morning sunshine. MJ shoves through the crowds with the ease of a lifetime New Yorker, keeping her purse under her arm and ducking whenever an elbow comes her way. The subway’s going to be packed, so she runs instead, jogging block after block in a harried panic.

She was late to the crime scene yesterday, missed the body and all the evidence.

It won’t happen this time.

Half an hour later, she stops just near Pell Street, taking deep, gulping breaths. Only when she’s sure there’s no physical evidence of her run—nothing like a leather jacket to hide the sweat stains—does she pluck out her camera and march to the crime scene.

And she’s _just_ in time. The coroner is loading up the body. It’s partially covered by a white sheet, but blood is already staining it, and she catches a glimpse of strawberry blonde hair before Anderson steps into her path.

“No photos of the body, Watson,” he says, surprisingly stern.

She lowers the camera. It’s not really worth taking the risk he might boot her off the exclusive. “Anything I write for the victims will be tasteful and respectful, detective. I promise. But a glimpse of what this monster is doing will bring the danger into sharp focus for our readers.”

“Trust me, photos of this will only terrorize people,” Anderson says, grimly.

“How about one of you and the hearse, then?”

His brows furrow, but it’s mostly for show and they both know it. Just like the first day, he can’t say no to media attention. He poses, arms crossed over his badge, gun on full display beneath his raised jacket, glancing at the alleyway with a textbook look of concern. MJ snaps the picture, then a few others of the coroner and the cops swarming the alley.

“Who was she?” MJ asks. “You said the killer left a note?”

Anderson rubs his face. “Yeah. Follow me. We don’t have identification on her. Guy’s getting smarter, taking their identification so we can’t recreate their evenings. Until someone reports them missing, our hands are tied.”

He leads MJ to an undercover cop car, where he brings up photos on his laptop. She’d been right; someone grabbed professional shots before Peter got there. Although he quickly skips past the bloodied Louis Vuitton purse, past the meaty carnage of the body, MJ sees enough to have her stomach twisting, nausea rising once again.

Jesus. This killer is nothing short of brutal.

He zooms into the note, so that’s all she can see, then turns the screen towards her. “It’s not much, but any lead we can find…” Anderson trails off, grimacing.

MJ squints at the note. It looks like it’s written on a napkin, in permanent marker.

_TOMORROW I KILL TWO._

A chill races down her spine, and she clenches her jaw. “Cocky bastard, isn’t he?” But it’s an empty statement; right now, he has reason to be arrogant. Right now, no one has _anything_ on him. But when he slips up, she’ll be there.

She just prays he doesn’t wrack up more of a body count before then.

Anderson doesn’t respond to her remark. Instead, he points at the note, tracing the lines of the O in “tomorrow,” which look like folded U’s. “His penmanship is pretty unique. It doesn’t mean much now, but if we get a suspect, I bet I can link their writing to the note.”

“How about forensics on the napkin?”

“Nothing yet, but that’s a long process, trying to identify it. I’ll keep you updated.”

MJ nods, makes a few notes. “Your team has been investigating the traffic cameras, right?”

“Traffic cams, security footage from nearby restaurants, even social media geolocated in this area,” he says. “Nothing. My guys are combing the evidence, but we haven’t found any witnesses to the moments these women are caught.”

MJ thinks. “Any chance they were killed on the roofs and rolled over the edge?”

Anderson blinks. “Jesus, Watson. What would make you think that?”

She shrugs, raising an eyebrow. “I think in three dimensions, Anderson.” She can thank a certain blue and red spider for that.

“Well, I’ll double-check with the coroner, but I definitely didn’t see that kind of _splat_ on the bodies.” He frowns. “It’s kind of like dropping a watermelon off the gymnasium. Unless it was a pretty short fall, it’s unlikely.”

“Short like, maybe out a window?”

He looks at her, then plucks his car radio. “Hey, Tyson. Check with the coroner that these bodies weren’t dropped from a few stories up, will ya?”

His radio crackles affirmation, and out the window, MJ sees a cop catch the coroner’s attention. Tyson, she presumes.

“I did some research on the purses, too,” MJ says, plucking out her cell phone to pull up her notes. “That model was crafted in 1986, like I said, but it was a limited release. I’m still following leads, but if they were sold in one place, that might offer a link to how the killer is tracking these victims.”

“Good investigating.” He shakes his head. “But again, Ms. Watson, that’s my job, not yours. Yours is to write articles that offer details to the public without being too graphic or fear-enticing.”

His chastising breezes right over her. She’s already wondering how Yuri’s doing on the traffic cams, and needs to follow up on Peter’s interviews the day before. With dinner and the baby, she totally forgot to ask him about it.

Plus, it’s almost 9am, which means Robbie’s expecting a check-in soon.

MJ gets out of the car, leans through the window. “I got it, Anderson. I’m off to do my reporting thing. Call me if anything new comes up.”

“Sure, sure,” he waves her off, already distracted with his radio.

With one last glance at the hearse, MJ strolls down the street.

 

* * *

 

Peter didn’t get anything. The roommates never saw the first three victims with purses, but two of them waffled on the answer and admitted they weren’t paying that much attention to the victims’ fashion sense. All of them were heartbroken, but none of them said it was strange the victims were walking around Chinatown at night.

It’s a big city. Women walk around alone all the time.

MJ thanks Peter and hangs up, then sinks into her desk chair, mind spinning with the information they have. Two more women by tomorrow… and there’s no reason to think the killer would lie. MJ’s chest tightens thinking about it, thinking about two more young lives snuffed for no reason. Two more peers who will never make strides in their careers, or explore deeper relationships with their loved ones.

Two more girls, ripped from their parents.

She rests a hand over her stomach. It’s impossible to imagine being a parent, feeling that heartbreak, but based on how fond she’s grown of this tiny baby in just twelve hours, she wouldn’t deny it’d be terrible.

Tears prick her eyes, and she grinds her teeth. Jesus. Hormones are already running rampant, aren’t they? She needs to get to work.

Focused now, she clears some papers from the ever-present stack on her desk, powers up her work computer, types in her password—and comes face-to-face with a note left on her desktop, typed on a simple word document in black font.

 

  _I want to help catch the Chinatown Killer. Call me at 000-555-3401._

MJ’s blood runs cold, but curiosity overrides the initial panic. Someone tracked her down, presumably from her articles, found her desk at work, hacked into her computer, and left this note so only she’d see it.

It either means they’re crazy, or she’s about to get a fantastic lead.

Or both.

MJ’s not stupid, though. Although her fingers itch to dial the number, she snaps a screenshot of the document, then copies the number into her tracking website. But it comes up blank—a burner phone, then. Not super encouraging, but… well, she’s still going to call the number.

Obviously.

She glances around the office, but no one’s looking her way. Robbie’s in a meeting, and the other reporters and editors are too busy to care what she’s up to. Satisfied, MJ hunches over her desk and dials the number.

It rings once. Just once.

“Ms. Watson. I was expecting your call.”

A woman. MJ clicks to the open document on her computer, begins recording her observations of the phone call. Just in case. Her words are casual, as if she’s not holding her breath between statements.

“Interesting, because I wasn’t expecting your note at all.”

A soft chuckle on the other end. “I’d have to be blind to miss your name on all the best articles surrounding this case. And I’ve seen your work before. Jefferson Davis, the Symkaria reports. You were even snooping around Fisk before the PDNY took him down, weren’t you?”

So a _smart_ mystery woman, then. Someone who clearly did her research before reaching out. MJ drums her fingers against the desk, excitement and caution warring for dominance. “You know, I feel bad. Normally I do preliminary research of my own before conducting interviews.”

“Oh, this isn’t an interview,” the other woman says cryptically. “It’s an offer. You seem like a woman with ambition, so I’m quite certain you’d like to play a direct hand in taking down the Chinatown Killer.”

MJ doesn’t reply for a moment, mind racing.

The woman proceeds, almost sly. “Am I wrong?”

“What do you know?” MJ asks, dropping her voice. Dropping the act.

“I know that we have to get him off the streets. I know that you perfectly fit the profile of women he snatches. I know you’re well-versed in self-defense, and I know I can get extra protection for you so no one gets hurt. Except the killer, of course.” She says that last part with such certainty that MJ winces.

“You’re asking me to be bait.”

The woman hums agreement. “You know as well as I that the greatest reporters—the ones who win Pulitzers, the ones who make history—take risks. Are you willing to take a risk, Ms. Watson?”

MJ stiffens. This mystery woman is trying to play her like a fiddle, and everything in MJ’s heart rebels against it. She’s not a puppet to be controlled, a pawn to be moved, and the fact this woman thinks of her just that offends MJ to her core.

And yet—the killer’s still loose. Women are dying. Now’s not the time to quibble about pride and perception.

“What makes you think you can find the killer when the PDNY can’t?”

“I have specialized intel. I’ve identified what streets the killer stalks his victims on, and identified a pattern of where he’s likely to strike tonight.”

MJ leans forward. Curiosity has piqued, but she’s still skeptical. “Why don’t you phone that into the PDNY?”

“Everything I’ve seen implies the killer would be spooked if he sensed a heightened police presence,” the woman says, matter-of-fact. She talks with certainty, almost like she’s done this kind of thing before. “I can’t risk him fading into the shadows, or changing his MO. Just imagine how many other women would be killed. It’s unacceptable.”

She’s right. Five women in three days, and now he’s threatening to kill two more tonight. If this woman is right, MJ could stop him. They could get him before the weekend hits, wipe his terror off the map.

God, Peter’s going to kill her just for entertaining this idea.

But it’s the best lead she’s had yet. And whatever protection this woman is promising, MJ is willing to bet Spider-Man will be better. The risk diminishes considerably when she thinks of Peter watching her from the rooftops.

But MJ won’t bargain without knowing who she’s bargaining with.

“Awfully bold, expecting me to trust you with my life, when you won’t even tell me your name.”

The woman goes quiet for a moment. “That didn’t sound like a ‘no.’”

“It wasn’t,” MJ replies, surprising herself with the certainty of the statement. “But I’m not doing anything without knowing who you are.”

“Fair.” The woman chuckles. “You can call me Yuri. And I’m here to help.”

  

* * *

 

Peter meets her on the rooftop adjacent to the Bugle. It’s considerably taller than its neighbor, so there’s no risk of any coworkers seeing her up there… having a clandestine meeting with Spider-Man. God, she can just imagine what a building of reporters would do with _that_ leak.

She’s fidgeting when he lands on the brick ledge, chest heaving. “MJ! What’s wrong? I came as fast as I could—”

“Everything’s fine. Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You sounded panicked.” He takes her hands. 

His suit’s slick material feels cool against her fingers, and she squeezes without thinking, quirking her lips. “Not panicked. Just… needed to talk. In person.”

Peter forces humor into his tone. “You’re not breaking up with me again, are you?” But there’s no way she’d miss the underlying vein of apprehension. Jeez. She really screwed with him last year, didn’t she? The space was necessary, but clearly she misjudged the fallout.

Well, that won’t do.

MJ steps closer, so their noses are just inches apart. His face is still covered by the mask, but if she’s quiet, she can hear his soft inhale as she presses flush against him. “Hell no. You’re stuck with me, Tiger.”

“Thank god.” He hides the obvious relief with a hollow laugh. “So—what’s wrong? Something with the baby?”

MJ flinches.

Because that’s the other thing. 

“Okay, don’t freak out, all right? Remember how you trust me and I trust you. Right?” She’s repeating herself, but her well-crafted argument vanished the second he showed up.

And with good reason, because he is not going to take this well.

Already, Peter tenses, every muscle in his body coiling tight as a snake. “…Right,” he says, slowly, cautiously. “You know, just by saying that, I’m freaking out. It’s like—like when you go to the doctor and he taps that rubber hammer to your knee.”

“A knee-jerk reaction?”

“You always were better at words.” He laughs again, weakly.

"I should hope so, considering I'm the writer." Okay, enough procrastinating. Dive right in. Like plunging into cold water. MJ draws a breath and blurts, “Yuri wants me to be bait.” Then she realizes that there’s not a lot of context there, so she clarifies, “With the Chinatown Killer. She reached out to me. She thinks she knows where he’s going to strike, and—”

Peter steps back, putting physical distance between them. His brows are furrowed under the mask, his mouth set into a deep line, she can tell. “ _Bait?_ Wait. How does Yuri even know who you are? _Bait??”_  

“Bait,” she agrees.

“N-No. Absolutely not!” Peter grips his head, paces a few steps away, then stomps back. “MJ, you can’t seriously be entertaining this. You’re pregnant _,_ for god’s sake! And Yuri just wants to wave you in front of a serial killer? How did she even find you?” His white, oblong eyes widen, then narrow just as fast. “The articles. Shit, she has no idea you know me, does she? She has _no idea_ who you really are, just that you’re reporting on the killer. God, covering this story was a terrible idea. I knew it. I _knew_ it.”

Even though he’s rambling, his words are getting louder, angrier. He’s working himself up, and MJ can feel her patience waning. "Peter," she says, but he clenches his fists and ignores her. 

"Jesus _Christ_. I mean, I’d expect this kind of stupidity from her, now. You know she doesn’t care about anyone but herself, right? She certainly doesn’t care if _you_ make it out of this alive. As long as she catches the killer, it’s a goddamn job well done! You can’t do this, MJ. Not to me, not to you, and certainly not to our _kid_.”

He’s not yelling _at_ her, she knows. She’s seen these shouting matches far too often to take them personally. But all those other times, she wasn’t pregnant. All those other times, her hormones weren’t running rampant, coiling anger and irritation into a bubble that bursts in a visceral eruption.

“ _Peter_!”

He freezes.

She draws a shaking breath, trying to tamp down her frustration. Now that he’s not yelling at her anymore, her mind calms, her emotions cool, and it’s not hard to force an even tone. Especially since she’s been rehearsing the next words since she hung up the phone with Yuri.

“I’m not doing anything without your permission.”

His eyes widen.

Silence.

She’d never have said those words a year ago. Even six months ago, she was still clawing her way to the top, still fighting to prove who she is outside of Spider-Man’s shadow. But yesterday, things changed. Last night, things changed.

The baby is half Peter’s. It’s not just her decision anymore.

“I only ask you hear me out."

He’s still stunned into silence. She waits until he nods, the barest tilt of his head, before drawing a breath. “I know it’s a terrible idea. And I know she’s less than trustworthy.”

He snorts, but still doesn’t interrupt.

“But like it or not, Tiger, she was a good cop. Even before everything last year, her name was on my desk more times than I can count. You gave her the tapes _hoping_ she’d get a lead, and she got one. And now she’s trying to fix a problem no one’s been able to touch—not even you.”

Peter flinches, and MJ immediately regrets it. But bluntness is necessary here; nothing less will get past the cloud of denial in Peter’s mind.

“You interviewed their families, Pete. Their friends. Weren’t they devastated?”

He presses his lips into a thin line, the mask’s thick material offering the barest flinch to prove it. Affirmation. Or the best she’s going to get.

She changes gears. “It’s not like I’d be going in blind, either. I can still defend myself. And you and Yuri won’t be far. Probably, I wouldn’t even need to talk to the guy. I’d just stroll through Chinatown until you see someone creeping after me, and then you web him to a wall.”

Peter’s shoulders tense again, but he isn’t interrupting. MJ puts a hand on his arm. “I guess I’m thinking, if there’s even a _chance_ we can get a killer off the streets tonight, isn’t it worth a bit of risk?”

“No,” he says, stubbornly.

She raises an eyebrow.

He groans, long and low, and scrubs his mask with one gloved hand. “Why does it have to be _you_? Why don’t you call your cop friend, have him use an undercover detective instead?”

“I suggested that,” MJ replies, pursing her lips. “But Yuri was pretty insistent we keep it out of police hands. She wouldn’t tell me any details of the killer’s location.”

Peter throws up his hands. “See? That’s my problem! She has evidence, evidence _I_ provided her, and she won’t turn it over to the authorities.”

“And again, I’ll argue that you keep evidence from the authorities all the time.” MJ rolls her eyes. “How often did you corner Fisk yourself instead of calling the cops?”

Peter scowls. “That was different and you know it.”

Only different because Peter was putting _himself_ in danger, but MJ isn’t about to say that. She just plucks her cell phone out of her pocket, taps to the pictures she took of the crime scene today, and hands it to him.

He squints at the photo.

“’Tomorrow I kill two.’” She echoes what he’s already reading, grimly. “Two more women by tomorrow morning. If you tell me to stay at home tonight, I will, but… but then those deaths will be on me.”

“No, they won’t,” Peter snaps. “You’re not murdering them.”

“But I have the power to help.”

She doesn’t say that if she has power, she has the responsibility. She doesn’t need to; he’s already thinking it.

It’s not a ploy to convince him, or manipulation. It’s the honest truth; baby or not, risk or not, if this killer strikes when MJ could have helped stop him, she’ll feel responsible. She knows those are two names she’ll never forget, and it’s eerie to think that right now, those future victims are strolling around New York with no idea of the hell coming.

Hell she can stop, if she just gives the guy another target.

Peter sinks onto the roof’s ledge, head dropping into his hands with a long-suffering groan. She sits on the ground beside his leg, back against the rough concrete, then glances at the watch, then the sky. But still she doesn’t speak. Her cell phone’s on do-not-disturb for the first time in three years, and her coworkers must be wondering where she’s run off to, but she doesn’t rush him.

It’s a big decision. She gets it.

But there’s really only one answer, and they both know what it is.

“You’re going to stay in my sight at all times,” he finally says.

She shrugs. “Whatever you say, Tiger.”

He glances sharply at her, voice raw. “MJ. _Please_. I can’t—I can’t lose you. I need you to understand that.”

Oh. It’s one of _those_ moments. Her expression softens, and she hikes herself onto the ledge beside him instead. “I know, Pete.” Then she laughs. “You seem to think I have a death wish, but I actually quite enjoy being alive.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he says, a little pained.

“What can I say? I learned from the best.”

Peter sighs, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. His muscles are solid as granite and still tense, but when she pokes his side he recoils with a real laugh this time. She grins and snuggles into the crook of his arm. He smells like sweat and hot dogs, so she definitely knows what he had for lunch, and she's mildly offended he didn't bring her any. She's eating for two, after all. 

Focus, Watson.

“I hear you, Pete. You handle security. Anything you want, anywhere you want me to be. You call the shots.”

“No pressure,” he replies, darkly. “What if I put on a wig, and _you_ stay at home? I think I’d look great with long red hair.”

MJ waggles her eyebrows. “I mean, if you really wanted to try some roleplay—”

Peter yelps indignantly. “What? No!”

“You’re the one who wants to wear a wig.” She smirks. “I’m always up for some excitement in the bedroom.”

“You’re a bad influence on our baby,” he grumbles.

She winks, even though there’s a flash of sick regret at the fact she’s really, truly pregnant. He wasn’t kidding about those knee-jerk reactions. She forces a smile and powers through it. “Baby got made somehow, Tiger. I’d say that’s your fault.”

Peter shrugs. “What can I say? I’m kind of awesome.”

“Modest, too.” She grins, then says, “So… what am I going to tell Yuri? That I have Spider-Man on speed dial?”

His eyes narrow again. “No. If we’re doing this, she’s going to know exactly who you are to me, and _all_ the strings attached.”

Lovely. MJ always wanted another vigilante knowing the personal details of her life with her _first_ vigilante. She can’t keep the sarcasm from her voice when she says, “Awesome. Sounds like a date.”

Peter doesn’t reply.

And really, there’s not much else to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HI.
> 
> Real estate school is SUPER interesting and SUPER exhausting. And I kinda cheated tonight, since I wrote most of this chapter last Sunday, before I started class. :P But I'll be done this time next week, so I'm almost over the hump!! And then it's back to writing 4k / day just for the fun of it. So basically, don't expect a new chapter until MAYBE this time next week, if you're reeeeally lucky. 
> 
> MWAHAHA. Shame, too, cause this story is about to switch gears big time. Let's go hunt a murderer. >:)


	6. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ and her spiders go hunting for a serial killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys REVIVED me. Literally a week ago I was like, "Maybe I should just abandon this story. I bet everyone forgot about me already." And then I got like, reviews and asks on my tumblr and all kinds of shit, and was like, OMG THEY WAITED AND THEY'RE EXCITED. (Seriously, THANK YOU. <3 )
> 
> So here you go, you beautiful people. Let the hunt begin. >:)
> 
> Triggers: N/A

You called Miles?” MJ deadpans.

Outside the living room window, Miles’ black suit is nearly invisible against the glare of the city. The sun set maybe an hour ago, but the artificial glow backlights his lithe form, making him look… kind of like the grim reaper of spider-people. Except that he’s just hanging there, awkwardly, knuckles inches from the glass. When he sees her staring, he waves instead.

MJ waves back, exasperated. At least he's not shielding his eyes this time.

Peter’s voice is choked from the bedroom hallway. “Did I call—No, MJ, I was planning to let my pregnant girlfriend face a serial killer with only  _one_ Spider-Man as backup.”

“Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated.” She rolls her eyes and opens the window. Miles shimmies inside, far less gracefully than Peter usually does, and lands on the carpet in a heap. She regards him coolly. “You know, Miles, that window’s always unlocked.”

“I’m not going to just sneak into your apartment uninvited,” Miles says, offended. He ignores her proffered hand, leaping off the floor with a flourish, as if he hadn’t biffed the entrance. Then he dusts off his suit, adding casually, “That’d be trespassing.”

MJ snorts, stepping around him to close the blinds. “You and Peter have the most inconsistent ethical code I’ve ever seen.”

“Ah, is Peter here?” He cranes his neck towards the hallway.

“In the bedroom,” she replies, clapping his shoulder before strolling back into the kitchen. A bagel with plain cream cheese is waiting for her, the only dinner they have on the books this evening. “Last minute suit modifications or something.”

“Oh! Should I…?” he trails off, examining his suit’s red webbing.

MJ shrugs, gesturing towards the hallway. “Knock yourself out.” Miles grins under the mask, but just as he reaches the doorframe to their bedroom, she calls, far louder than necessary, “Hey, I forgot to ask. How’s Gwen?”

“Fine! S-She’s fine."

“Wait. Who’s Gwen?” Peter asks.

Miles groans, the epitome of the embarrassed teenager, and MJ grins into her bagel. It’s the first real smile of the night, but it doesn’t do much to settle her nerves. Even though she chose this, even though she’s not going behind Peter’s back, even though her backup is insane... her mind is a gnarled mess. She can’t seem to focus on anything for long, can’t seem to calm the tremor in her hands, the nausea clenching her gut.

Something’s going to go wrong tonight. She can feel it.

She just can’t figure out what.

They brainstormed the plan for hours. Peter did a dry-run of the area, scoping out every alley and side street in Chinatown. He crafted a microphone that slides over her ear, invisible when her hair is down, but picks up on the vibrations in her jaw—a less-fancy prototype to the one in his current mask. Silly as it felt, he even insisted on hand signals, something inconspicuous she could do to call him if her microphone stopped working.

And then he summoned Miles. Which should be overkill, but… tonight, MJ can’t help but feel relieved for the second set of eyes.

Well, third, counting Yuri.

Yuri, who has no idea MJ’s entourage includes Spider-Man and Spider-Man-in-Training. Obviously, she knows Peter’s coming; he got a call maybe an hour after their rooftop conversation, where Yuri asked him for “help” following a “lead.”

She just doesn’t know they’re coming together, with Miles in tow.

MJ chews her bagel, which is as tasteless as she’d expect, feeling like she does. But she goes through the motions, because Peter told her to eat and she needs to do _something_ or he’s going to know how nervous she is.

How terrified she is.

So when he and Miles emerge, fully suited and looking like actual, competent superheroes—and a little like sculpted models on a runway of faded beige carpet—MJ smirks and says, wryly, “Wow, I feel better already.”

Peter crosses his arms. “Not too late to back out. I can still get a wig.”

“Come on, Tiger. Not in front of the minor.” MJ winks.

Miles tosses up his hands and stomps past them. “Are we going or what?” He pries open the window and crawls out, only slightly more graceful at exiting.

In the resulting silence, Peter looks her up and down and whispers, “You really want to do this?”

 _No_. She’s dressed in clothes that mirror the past victims—form-fitting jeans and a plunging blouse—and she feels like a fraud. Or a target. Either the serial killer is going to pin her immediately… or worse, he won’t, and she’ll be in the same position as those murdered women.

But if it’s not her, it’ll be someone else.

So she takes Peter’s hand and lies her ass off. “I was made for this kind of thing, Pete. Let’s do it.”

He rolls up his mask and kisses her, hard and passionate. His hands wind around her waist, pulling her flush against him, but it isn’t sexual. Not tonight. Tonight, it’s blinding love and panicked fear conveyed without any words at all.

And she kisses back, just as desperate.

 

* * *

 

 

Yuri’s waiting for them in an alley two streets over from the latest murder scene. She’s dressed in all black, pressed into the shadows behind a muddy green dumpster, and the perplexed look on her face when Peter drops from the nearby roof, his grip tight around MJ’s waist, is kind of priceless.

“Oh. Ms. Watson. I—didn’t realize you two knew each other.” Yuri's gaze is calculating.

Above them, Miles watches from the rooftop, his black suit nearly invisible against the dark sky. Or maybe he really has gone invisible. Impossible to know, with her focus on the ex-cop in the alley.  

MJ moves to step away from Peter, but his grip tightens, keeping her pressed to his side. His tone is cold as ice. “Well, it's about time we all get acquainted. This is my _girlfriend_ , MJ. You know, the woman you asked to face a serial killer without any formal training or expertise.”

Oh, jeez.

“Well, that’s going a little far,” MJ says, exasperated. She almost rolls her eyes, but with true restraint, somehow refrains. Still, she can’t help adding, “I _am_ a black belt.” She gently extracts herself from Peter’s iron grip, but keeps a hand on his forearm to ground him. His corded muscles are taut as a coiled spring.

Yuri crosses her arms. “I didn’t realize—”

“You don’t realize a lot,” Peter says, uncharacteristically fierce. “Did I mention MJ is pregnant?”

MJ swallows a groan. Okay, this is getting excessive.

Yuri raises an eyebrow, eyes sharp. But instead of blanching about MJ’s condition or defending her decisions, the vigilante just turns to MJ and asks, calmly, “Do you want to call this off, Watson? The decision is yours.”

Yes. She does.

But she can’t.

“No. We all understand the risks.” MJ squares her shoulders, one hand on her hip. “He just wants you to understand what you’re asking of me. I’m not a cop, and I’m not a superhero. And it’s not just _my_ life on the line tonight.”

Beside her, Peter is rigid as a statue.

Yuri sighs. “I understand. And I wouldn’t have asked for your help if it weren’t necessary. I’m too old to fit the profile, and everything I do is tainted by my time on the force. If my hunch is correct, the killer will pin that in an instant.”

“You seem to have learned a lot about him from those tapes.”

“Not just the tapes.” Yuri glances back at Peter, but his face is expressionless behind the white eyelets of his mask. “Your articles, the murder locations, the MO. It’s enough to warrant a guess. I’ve met a lot of killers.”

Peter laughs, coldly. “Sure. Every time you look in the mirror.”

“I do what needs to be done,” Yuri replies, anger lacing her tone now.

“At the expense of whoever’s around you,” Peter snaps, stepping forward with clenched fists.

MJ pulls him back. “Enough.” She squeezes his arm again, less comfort and more warning, now. If he can’t keep himself together during this exchange, Yuri will be that much harder to work with if shit hits the fan.

And based on the nausea in her gut, it might.

She glances back at Yuri, who’s standing just like a cop: hands on hips, one arm brushing the holster strapped to her chest. No wonder Peter’s on edge; she looks like she’s ready for battle. But as long as she’s fighting their side, it’s fine. “Look, you didn’t give us a lot of intel. Where am I going to be? Who should I look for?”

Yuri presses her lips together, but fishes a phone from her pocket. She turns the screen towards them, playing a grainy traffic cam spliced with footage from private restaurants, ATM vestibules, and a bank. It’s far more than the pieces Peter supplied, which definitely eases MJ’s nerves. Yuri was a good cop; even now, she clearly does her research.

“See the guy in the baseball cap?” she says.

MJ does. He’s wearing three different jackets, so these are clearly from multiple evenings this week, but the baseball cap never changes. A chill runs up her spine; she’s watching footage of a murderer.

And soon, she’ll be facing him.

“He’s good; never shows his face to the cameras, never gets close to anyone who might ID him. But it looks like he chats with the victims first, then coaxes them into the alleys. It doesn’t appear sexual, either; possibly, he crafts a story about needing help so the victims lower their guard. But he’s careful not to be recorded after the initial conversation.” Yuri taps off the video, pockets the cell. “I mapped out where he’s been from the cameras in Chinatown. It’s highly likely he’ll be prowling near Allen Street tonight.”

Peter glances at MJ, a knowing look that asks, one last time, _you still want to do this?_

And one last time, she nods curtly. “I’m ready.”

Yuri’s lips tilt upwards, the barest hint of a smile. “That doesn’t surprise me. I’ll have eyes on you from across the street, ready to move if things go south. Spider-Man, you stay to the buildings above her, but subtly. Can’t have someone snapping Instagram photos of what we’re doing.”

“You don’t need to tell me how to protect my _pregnant girlfriend_ , Yuri.” Peter says the two words pointedly, as if she didn’t hear him the first time. MJ does roll her eyes, now. No one notices. “And forgive me if I don’t trust _you_ to watch her.”

He signals with a fast hand movement, and Miles lands with a thud on the dumpster. His black suit nearly invisible against the shadows of the alley. Under Yuri’s gaze, he flips off the dumpster and straightens, trying to stand as tall as Peter. Maybe in a few years, he’ll actually do it, too.

Yuri raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering when I’d get to meet your apprentice. Let me guess. Spider-boy?”

“Spider-Man,” Miles says, inflecting his voice about two octaves deeper than usual.

MJ swallows a snort.

“That’s not going to be confusing,” Yuri mutters. “Okay, Spiders. We have one shot at this. Watson, whenever you’re ready.”

Okay. Time. MJ draws a breath and says, “Let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

Turns out, stalking a serial killer is… kind of dull. Even with a murderer on the loose, the streets of Chinatown are bustling. It’s Friday night, and there’s a New York flavor to the people who muscle past MJ. She wants to talk to Peter—has he seen anyone suspicious yet? Is there someone she should be watching?—but if she starts whispering to herself on the corner of Canal and Allen, it might turn off the killer.

So she moseys. She curled her hair, left it down so the color stands out, chose a blouse that complimented it. Her heels are modest, since anyone wearing more than two inches has clearly never had the subway break on the way home. Her jeans are skintight, and she purposefully sways her ass while she walks.

And all the while, Peter and Miles talk to her.

Normally, that’d be fine. Things like, “ _MJ, I’m on the brick building to your left,_ ” are helpful and pertinent. But when Peter tacks on, “ _You’re doing good—and looking great, if I do say so myself_ ,” it gets harder to keep a straight face.

And then there’s Miles, whispering over their radio channel: “ _How close can I get without being creepy? If I turn invisible, it won’t be weird. Right, MJ? Would that make you feel better?_ ”

She rolls her eyes. They probably should have discussed that earlier, but she forgets Miles’ unique talents, and Peter’s been more than a little distracted. Still, the killer might already have eyes on her, so she doesn’t risk a reply.

“ _She can’t respond, Miles. But yeah, that’s good! Get down there. Don’t bump into anyone, though_.”

“ _Easier said than done_ ,” Miles mutters, and MJ catches a shadow of black dropping from a rooftop before there’s nothing there at all.

Her eyes catch Yuri, watching from behind her smartphone across the street. She’s keeping her distance from the procession. Considering her suspicions of the perp’s attitude towards cops, it’s probably a wise move. There’s nothing she could physically do that MJ, Peter, and Miles couldn’t.

And then, just as MJ turns the corner onto Allen, someone slams into her.

She staggers backwards, but he catches her arm before she can fall. Every alarm in her brain _screams_ , but MJ swallows the fear in favor of an awkward laugh and the never-ending stream of apologies most women spout when someone runs into them.

“Sorry! Oh, gosh, I’m so clumsy. I wasn’t looking—”

“It’s okay.” The man winces, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s maybe early thirties, with a well-trimmed beard and startling blue eyes. He smiles awkwardly, disarmingly, and steps out of her space. “That was my fault, I think. I’m running late.”

He doesn’t look like a serial killer. But that doesn’t stop the prickling along her arms, or the sweat that trickles down the back of her neck.

In her ear, Peter is rambling, panic in his voice. “ _Is that him? That looks like him, doesn’t it? No baseball cap, but… Miles, get closer! Where’s Yuri? Christ, he’s too close—MJ, do you want us to intervene? I can web that guy up here in a second_ —”

“No!” MJ exclaims. Shit, after all this, _Peter’s_ going to be the one who blows it.

The man tilts his head. “Ah, sorry?”

“No, it’s not your fault,” MJ says, hastily. Smooth recovery, Watson. “A-Are you going anywhere in particular?” It’s one step too far, too invasive, but she can’t let this guy get away if he’s actually the murderer.

But he just blinks, awkwardness settling over them like a blanket. “Um… My girlfriend and I are meeting at that British place?” he motions across the street at an English bar, then edges around her. “Nice meeting you.”

Without a word, he’s gone.

MJ’s face burns, and she ducks her head. “False alarm, guys. That wasn’t him.”

“ _How do you know_?” Peter demands, still panicked. “ _I think we should keep an eye on him just in case. Miles—_ ”

“ _On it_ ,” Miles says.

MJ winces. “He’s just a guy, Pete. He’s having dinner with his girlfriend.” She’s glad Yuri’s not included in their little three-way chat, because there’d be no secret identities left after the last half hour of conversation. Plus, she’s spared the embarrassment of a false alarm like this. With great effort, she says, “Let’s just get back to it.”

But just as she turns around, someone calls, “Ms. Watson?”

Oh, shit.

“ _MJ, behind you_ —” Peter says, but she stops listening, plastering a smile on her face as she spins on her heels.

“Detective Anderson!” He’s standing there, dressed in plain clothes with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. Probably heading home from work. But his expression is nothing short of exasperated. MJ’s voice is bright as she chimes, “What a surprise.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Surprises like this don’t happen in New York. Let me guess. You’re investigating the killer.”

MJ crosses her arms. “Same as you, I gather.”

“Difference is, I’m not a civilian, and I don’t fit the profile,” Anderson replies, but his gaze is appreciative when it sweeps her again. “You’re quite the reporter, aren’t you? Trying to get a scoop by immersing yourself in the victims’ lives? Or trying to find the man himself?”

“One of those.” MJ smirks.

A flash of dark hair across the street catches her gaze. Yuri, ducked low under—ironically—a baseball cap. Miles might be gone... or he could be standing right next to her; no way to tell. Peter’s somewhere overhead, but for the first time all night, MJ’s nerves settle.

Between talking to strangers who might be serial killers, and talking to a detective like Anderson, she’ll choose him any day.

“ _Who’s that_?” Miles asks over their connection.

“ _A cop_.” Even Peter sounds relieved now. “ _He’s the one who gave MJ the exclusive on this story_.” He hesitates, then adds, “ _But Yuri’s giving us the death glare over there. If_ she _looks like police, he might as well have his badge and gun on full display. MJ, if you want to keep trying tonight, you might need to ditch him.”_

MJ doesn’t reply. Peter’s right, of course, but—something niggles in her brain that cutting Anderson loose here would be a mistake. It takes her a moment to pin what it is, and then she says, “Hang on. I distinctly remember you saying you live in Queens, so this definitely isn’t your commute. You’re running an undercover mission right now, aren’t you?”

Anderson’s lips quirk upwards. “Picked that up fast.” He glances around, then lowers his voice. “It’s low-key. We have it on good authority that the killer keeps an eye out for cops, so it’s just me and a couple officers waiting in Midtown.”

“Oh. Then I guess I’m a bit redundant,” MJ says, slowly. She glances again at Yuri, who’s still leaning against the building across the street, tapping away at her phone. But this time, their gazes meet, and the woman’s eyes narrow.

Peter’s the only one with a direct line to her, though, so MJ has no idea what she’s thinking.

Anderson crosses his arms. His gun is still hidden underneath his jacket, a subtle bulk behind the zipped polyester. “I’d prefer you head home—” he stops short, presses a hand to his ear. His comm must be even smaller than hers, because she can’t see it at all. His expression grows hard, and he curses under his breath.

Another development. It has to be. The killer struck, and MJ _missed_ it.

The failure courses through her veins, and she feels suddenly dizzy. “What? What are they saying?”

“Nothing,” Anderson says, curtly. He spins on his heels, but doesn’t make it two steps before MJ grabs his arm.

“Detective! Don’t you want an exclusive about this?”

He considers her, winces, and says, “What are the odds you’ll just go home?”

“Slim to none.”

“ _MJ, what’s happening_?” Peter asks, urgently.

MJ doesn’t respond.

Anderson groans, raking a hand through his gelled hair. “Fine. Another tip was just called about a body. Two streets southeast.” Without a word, he starts jogging, weaving through crowds like a pro.

MJ sprints after him, gasping into her comm, “They have a lead. Anderson just had a call about a body. The killer’s already struck, just southeast of here.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Peter says, angrily. “ _Miles, see if you can find the body, or a guy in the baseball cap. I’ll stay with MJ and call Yuri._ ”

“On it,” Miles says, and a few seconds later, a shadow of black leaps from a nearby alley to sling over MJ’s head. He swings over a building in a rush of wind and some leftover webbing. MJ’s pretty impressed; he’s picked up a lot since the last time she saw him Spider-ing.

Anderson leads her through a few side streets, into a far less crowded area. It’s further away than the other kills, barely in Chinatown at all. Which means Yuri got it totally wrong, and a stranger paid with her life. MJ feels sick as she jogs after the detective, thinking of how close—and yet, how  _far_ —they were.

She was so stupid, assuming she’d be the only woman who fits the profile strolling through Chinatown. Arrogance at its finest. To think, if Miles, Peter, and Yuri weren’t so focused on MJ and her safety, if they’d split up, one of them _might_ have seen this happening.

And that woman would still be alive.

MJ curses under her breath and runs faster.

Anderson isn’t waiting for her. He keeps pressing a hand to his ear, undoubtedly talking with the cops in Midtown, coordinating with other police in the area. He has a job to do, and it doesn’t seem to matter if MJ’s around for it or not.

He's not the only one with a job to do, though.

They wind up in a parking lot off Henry Street. Apparently they beat the other cops here, since they’re utterly alone now. A white building, five stories and apparently abandoned, looms behind a chain-link fence. It must have been out of service for a while, since there’s a gaping hole in the fencing facing the parking lot, and faded graffiti coloring the exterior.

A chill runs up MJ's spine, and she stops beside Anderson, chest heaving. “Here? This isn’t his normal MO.”

“Well, before your articles, no one knew about him. Now he’s famous,” Anderson replies, grimly. “The call came from some teens who were tagging the place. Body’s just inside, apparently.”

He tugs out his gun, as if the perp would be chilling in the weeds. MJ ignores him to step right to the windows, peeking into the empty building. Hoping simultaneously to see the body, or see nothing at all.

But from this angle, it’s impossible to glimpse anything. The shadows stretch long beyond the broken glass, and it’s dark and eerie. She shudders, suddenly feeling like she’s in a horror movie. That poor woman must have been so scared.

“Pete,” she whispers, just to hear his voice.

“ _We’re here_ ,” he replies. “ _Miles and I are entering from the fifth floor. Yuri’s around the corner, scanning for the killer. I gotta say, if this place wasn’t haunted before, it is now.”_

MJ chokes on a laugh, desperate for anything to lighten the mood. But she gathers her courage and steps to a window without jagged glass lining the edge, heaving herself over the windowsill before Anderson can stop her.

“Watson,” Anderson snaps, but she’s already gone.

Thing is, though, the place is empty. She flicks on her Starkphone’s flashlight, scanning the room with baited breath, but—nothing’s here. It looks like an old office building, though, so maybe the taggers were peeking into a different room? But... 

Something's wrong. She can feel it.

Anderson’s heavy boots thud behind her.

And then he cocks his gun and says, casually, “Okay, Mary Jane. Do me a favor, hmm? Don’t move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUM BUM BUUUUUM. 
> 
> Did anyone pin this? Cause I feel like it was super obvious, which is why I restructured my whole story to do the reveal at the halfway point instead of the end, like I expected. Ah, Anderson, you evil bastard. 
> 
> Literally, though, THANK YOU to all the people who reached out to me. I read and cherish every single review, and without your encouragement, this chapter would never have been written. Real estate school was draining and writing was like, a distant pipe dream during it. But I'm done now, so updates will be more regular. Promise. <3 (Especially now that I know people are still waiting for me after two weeks. XD )
> 
> You guys ROCK. New chapter soon! :3


	7. The Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson attacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REMEMBER HOW I SAID THERE'D BE WHUMP? IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME, RIGHT? 
> 
> >:)
> 
> Triggers: kidnapping, physical assault, gun violence, mention of sexual violence. Whoo boy, here we go!

MJ’s heart stutters, her breath hitching with horror.

Anderson. _Anderson_. How could she be so stupid? God, all those times he glorified the killer, mentioned how “famous” he was, how “smart,” how “clever.” All the times he posed for her camera, tugged her further into this story, gave her just enough information to keep her dependent on him without figuring him out.

It worked.

She feels sick.

His footsteps stroll closer.

“Pete,” she breathes, barely audible. “It’s Anderson. _Pete_.”

 _“What?”_ Peter all-but screams.

Anderson shoves the pistol into her back, then presses himself flush against her. Her stomach flips, disgust wrinkling her features as his hot breath warms her cheek. “Talking to someone, Watson?” He pulls back her hair, almost reverently, to find her tiny black comm.

“Yeah,” she says, voice tight with anger. “My partners. You’re finished, Anderson.”

He shoves the gun’s muzzle deeper into her skin, hard enough to bruise, then chuckles as she gasps in pain. “We’ll see.” He plucks the comm from her ear, listens to Peter and Miles yammering over themselves, desperate to get to her, see if she’s okay.

With a wry smirk, he drops it to the ground. Then he slams his heel down, abruptly, violently, and grinds it into dust.

MJ goes cold.

“Come along, Watson,” he says, almost pleasant.

No. She doesn’t want to. Peter and Miles know she’s on the ground floor, just inside the windows. Yuri’s nearby, and she’ll be able to get here fast once Peter calls her. But if Anderson has the chance to take her further inside this massive building, through the winding offices and stairwells, they might not find her in time.

“What’s the rush, Anderson?” she drawls, her cool tone belying her fear. Maybe if she stalls him long enough... “Not afraid of an audience, are you?”

He slaps her.

She spins with the force of it, crashes to the concrete. Her head slams against the ground, and stars burst behind her eyes. It takes a few moments for the world to stop whirling, for her vision to center on Anderson looming over her.

Aiming the gun right between her eyes.

“I didn’t tell you to speak. I told you to _move._ Come along.” Now the last two words are ground between gritted teeth, and he grabs her arm, hauling her upright as if she's made of paper.

The gun’s right there, and MJ’s muscles coil in anticipation. She could grab the muzzle, disarm him in seconds. She hasn’t visited her dojo in a few months, but she took martial arts long enough that this is muscle memory.

Except—every time she’s used it before, there wasn’t a baby involved.

And her opponent wasn’t a highly-trained _cop_.

There’s a gleeful fury in his eyes, crazed and unpredictable. What if he has another gun under his jacket? What if she tries to run and he fires? What if he aims too low, hits her gut, and then she bleeds out and their baby can't stand a goddamn chance?

MJ shudders.

She doesn’t disarm him. Instead, she tries a different approach, even as he hauls her deeper into the building.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Didn’t you _listen_? I thought you were supposed to be good at that, little miss reporter.” Anderson digs into the bag slung over his shoulder and tugs out a gag, then yanks it into her mouth hard enough her jaw aches. The cloth cuts her skin, and when he ties it against the spot where she slammed into the concrete, her skull throbs and her world spins.

Fear ratchets through her as he tows her down a nearby staircase, practically dragging her through the basement hallways even as glass shatters in the room they just vacated.

Peter, Miles, or Yuri? All three?

Either way, they’re too late.

MJ tries to scream, but the gag is too goddamn effective. She tries to fight, but Anderson knows she’s terrified of the gun, and he shoves it against her lower back. Just opposite the baby.

Jesus Christ, this was such a bad idea. MJ clenches her eyes shut. If she makes it out of this, she’ll never tell Peter he’s overreacting _ever again_.

The hallways down here are dark and dismal, with skittering rats and a musty smell. But Anderson moves with purpose, even in the near-black light, until they reach what looks like a dead-end of bouldering shadows and jagged iron rods. A collapsed hallway, dusty with disuse.

MJ swallows a sigh of relief. He’s lost, and her backup’s coming. She still has a chance.

But then he ducks under a slab of concrete, shoving her into a hidden room. Water tip-tip-tips in the corners, and it’s pitch black now. All MJ is aware of is the ache in her skull, the fear in her heart, the gun against her back.

He plucks out his cell phone, turns on the white light with his free hand. Turns out, this isn’t a random room, and this building wasn’t a random office. It was a bank—and this was the vault. Thick metal shelves line the walls, empty of cash but adorned with sex toys, restraints, even a stained mattress in the far corner.

His own little dungeon of terror.

Oh _god_.

MJ’s paralyzed now, trembling in his grip.

“Like it? A girl of your personality is too good to rape in some alley. You deserve the best,” Anderson whispers in her ear, like a lover’s caress. He seems to take great pleasure in her fear, which only makes her shake harder, now with unbridled anger. How dare he. How _dare_ he?

But before she can react, he slams the butt of his gun against her abused skull. She screams, the sound a muffled mess against the gag, and crumbles, but Anderson shoves her inside the vault before she hits the floor.

For a blessed moment, she prays for him to lock her here, alone.

But he’s not letting her go that easy. With a malicious smile, he follows her, swings the groaning metal door shut, spins a safety lock on the inside to trap them both here. He raps his knuckles against it and says, “Your _partners_  won’t find us down here. And by the time they come back with help, I’ll be long gone.”

MJ’s eyes widen. _He’ll_ be long gone.

But she’s not leaving.

MJ scrabbles at the gag, but Anderson shoves the gun against her skull. This time, though, she has nothing to lose. She’s trapped in a vault with a murderer, and there’s no way in _hell_ she’s going down like this. She can’t keep operating as if the baby needs protection; if MJ doesn’t protect _herself_ first, the baby will die anyway.

Her response is fast as lightning. She grips the barrel, wrenches it from Anderson’s grasp, aims it best she can. And she’s not pulling punches anymore. Acting on pure, panicked instinct, she fires the gun twice.

One buries itself in Anderson’s shoulder.

The other ricochets against the metal walls.

MJ only knows because her heart _literally stops_ as it pings around, then embeds itself deep in the mattress Anderson had shoved in the corner.

Blood gushes from his wound, and Anderson screams, turning on her with eyes so wide and crazed the whites are showing. MJ aims the gun again, but he’s too fast, too close, and then they’re scrabbling for the weapon, twisting like serpents, struggling forpurchase.

He grabs her arm to redirect the muzzle, and with the raw strength of a fatal fight, he slams her forearm against the metal shelves.

Something _snaps_.

Blinding pain whites MJ’s vision, and that’s all Anderson needs to regain the upper hand. MJ’s on the ground before she knows it, her left forearm split near the wrist, blood gushing past a bright white bone that shoves through the skin.  

Everything goes numb. She’s—she’s losing. In the first life or death fight that really matters, MJ’s _losing_.

“I’m gonna—kill you—” he hisses, panting for breath. “I was gonna make this slow—enjoyable. I _respected_ you, Mary Jane. But—but if you can’t behave with dignity, _why should I_?” He snarls the last bit, and MJ whimpers against her gag.

This is her fault. God, she should never have trusted him.

It’s too late.

And then the vault’s door is wrenched off its hinges with raw strength only two men possess.

The cavalry.

Anderson spins, pointing the gun, and MJ _screams,_ but it’s too late. There’s a flash, a bang, and Peter’s body jerks backwards in slow motion. Everything seems slow, actually: Miles ducking underneath Peter’s arm to web Anderson to the shelves; Anderson screaming and snarling like a rabid dog; Yuri sprinting past the concrete rubble just in time to catch Peter before he crashes to the ground.

And then—it’s over. Things snap back into startling focus, and suddenly Miles is at MJ’s side, eye lenses so wide they’re almost round as he rips the gag off her mouth, hands hovering over her broken arm.

“Oh shit. _Shit_ ,” Miles stammers. “H-Hang on, MJ. Don’t move! I’ll—ah, I’ll bind this—”

But MJ’s not listening. Peter was hit. He was _hit_ , and he’s been shot before, but this feels different. This feels terrifying. Fear drowns MJ, and she crawls over to him, giving Anderson’s writhing form a wide berth, her broken arm dragging limply behind her.

“P-Peter—” she sobs.

“Secret identities,” Miles gasps, but it’s too late for that.

Yuri’s already pulling off Spider-Man’s mask.

But it’s a calculating move, where she lays him on his back and shields his face from Anderson’s view, pressing her ear to Peter’s lips without any regard for Spider-Man’s true identity.

“He’s breathing,” she announces, swiftly. “Spider-boy, don’t you _dare_ let that man loose.”

Miles is too scared to be indignant at that nickname. He just turns towards Anderson, webs his mouth, then applies about seven more web shots. It’ll take the police hours to saw through that gunk.

Yuri’s fingers skim Peter’s form, settling over the bullet wound near his heart. She curses under her breath, immediately applying pressure. “Come on, Spidey. Don’t do this to us. Not here.” But his blood bubbles around her fingers.

“N-No,” MJ whispers, taking his face in her good hand. Off-balance, she nearly crashes to the ground. Her head is spinning. This is the _worst_ dream. “No, no, no. Come on, Tiger. Wake up. _Please_ wake up.”

“Oh, man,” Miles’s voice is tenuous, weak, from his position near Anderson.

“He needs professional medical attention, fast,” Yuri mutters.

“Not a hospital,” MJ gasps. “Not in his suit.”

Yuri grits her teeth. “I think you’re underestimating how serious a bullet to the heart is.”

“He heals fast. They both do.” God, she better not be making a mistake here. But she’s had to make this choice before: professional care under a surgeon’s hands, or life-saving measures under MJ’s. And each time, he’s made it through and _thanked_ her for keeping his identity secret. “If—” she feels dizzy, hot and cold at once. Her eyes keep catching the bone of her broken forearm, and it’s making her so, so nauseas. “If we can get him to my apartment, I can—”

“What? Faint?” Yuri’s voice is cold, unforgiving. “He’s not the only one who needs a hospital.”

“What if we strip his suit?” Miles demands.

MJ growls in desperate, hysterical anger. “It’s not t-the suit. It’s his _healing_. Any doctor will know he’s enhanced when they see his s-skin stitching itself back together.” She’s slurring her words now, shaking harder than she has all night.

Yuri regards her for a long moment, hands still pressed hard against Peter’s chest, fingers stained with his blood. His breath is shallow, his face too pale, but he’s still alive. And he’s survived worse.

They don’t have a choice.

After a moment, Yuri clenches her eyes shut, whispers what sounds suspiciously like a prayer, and says, “My place is just a few blocks from here. If Spider-boy can web him over there, I can try to fish the bullet out. But he’s going to need a transfusion, and I don’t have a blood bank handy.”

“Hospitals do though.” Miles’ brows furrow. “What if I steal some? My mom's a nurse; I know where they keep the bags.”

“We’d have to be fast, but that could work.” Yuri leans back, and without prompting, Miles scoops Peter up as if he’s light as air. To Miles, he probably is. MJ chokes as Peter’s blood drips past Miles’ black suit, but if the kid’s as horrified as she is, he’s not showing it.  

No, he’s the epitome of the calm, collected hero.

Peter would be proud.

“Head to the brick warehouse three streets east of here, right off the river. The door’s padlocked, but the roof’s window should be open. I’ll meet you there just as soon as I deal with _him_.”

Now Yuri stands, plucking a gun from the recesses of her leather jacket. She aims at Anderson, flicks the safety off, but MJ surges to her feet.

“No!” With her good hand, she grabs the gun before Yuri can fire, throwing it to the ground.

It’s too much exertion, and MJ’s world spins. She staggers into the concrete wall, but Miles steps in where she can’t. Holding Peter’s limp form, he narrows his eyes. “We don’t _kill_ prisoners,” he says, firmly. Angrily. “The cops are coming. Let them handle this.”

Yuri scoffs in disgust. “Wow, there really are two Spider-Men.” It’s not a compliment.

“H-He’s right,” MJ gasps past the surge of pain in her arm. “Anderson’s done. Leave him. _Save Peter_.”

Miles holds Yuri’s gaze for another long moment before sprinting past her, carrying Peter through the collapsed hallway, up the stairs, out of sight. MJ tries to straighten, walk on her own, but her legs give out and she almost crumbles too.

Yuri catches her, hauls MJ’s good arm over her shoulder. MJ’s vision flickers in and out of focus, but she catches the furious look Yuri shoots Anderson, still webbed to the vault’s wall, before she tows MJ to salvation.

She slips into darkness before they reach the ambulance.

 

* * *

 

 

When she awakes, it’s to the telltale beeping of a heart monitor. Her mind struggles to regain focus, struggles to concentrate on anything but the white ceiling above her head and the ever-present clenching of her heart.

She’s terrified, and she can’t remember why.

The night returns in flashes: their (stupid, _stupid_ ) plan, the random stranger who actually was innocent, running into Anderson—following Anderson—the abandoned building—the basement vault—the fight—the blood— _Peter_ —

MJ gasps, jerking upright. “Peter,” she chokes, but the heart monitor screams beside her and before she can tear off the wires taped to her chest, a nurse sprints into the room.

“Oh, no. Not yet, honey,” the woman says, sternly, and applies pressure to MJ’s shoulder, holding her against the mattress. “You’re on bedrest for now. No need to stress the baby out any more than you already have.”

Relief hits MJ in a startling wave. She’d forgotten about the baby. Forgotten about what _happens_ to fetuses exposed to unparalleled trauma. But—if the nurse is saying that, she must be okay. They must be okay.

Peter’s not okay.

MJ’s breath hitches. “I have to l-leave.” She’s alone, other than the nurse. Where’s Miles? Yuri? Is Peter even still alive, or did her decision to keep him from a hospital finally kill him?

Guilt chokes her, and tears stream down her face.

“Hey, hey,” the nurse soothes. She’s a stick-thin woman with graying hair, and she kind of reminds MJ of Aunt May. So when the nurse smooths her hair, MJ’s nerves begin to settle. “You can’t leave yet, Mary Jane. Are you in pain? Is that why you’re crying?”

“No.” MJ clenches her eyes shut. If Yuri’s absent, and Miles hasn’t shown up yet, that has to mean they’re doing everything they can for Peter. He _must_ be alive. She clings to that, redirecting her foggy brain towards the one thing she _can_ address: Anderson. “I need to t-talk to the police.”

The nurse glances over her shoulder. “They were here. I’ll see if I can track one of them down. But in the meantime, you need to stay here. Do you understand?”

MJ nods.

The woman sighs and steps from the room.

And the second the door clicks shut, someone knocks on the window. MJ twists, but then the window slides up and Miles steps inside, stumbling a bit on the landing. He purposefully ducks out of view of the nurse’s station, visible through the glass on the door, and tugs off his mask.

“Miles,” she breathes.

Deep shadows hang under his eyes, and his shoulders slump a bit. “You feeling okay, MJ?” His eyes trail to her left arm, tightly bound in thick bandages. MJ can’t feel much, just a twitch of her pinky when she tries to move her fingers. It’s… kind of a blessing, after the crippling pain in that basement.

But she’s not concerned with herself. “Peter. How’s Peter?” Desperation weighs the words, and she clenches the stiff white bedsheet, sick with fear.

“Alive,” Miles replies, swallowing hard. Relief slams her like an avalanche, until he adds, “Barely. It was pretty touch and go, but…well, Yuri knows a lot about field medicine. She’s watching him now.”

More tears prick MJ’s eyes, and her heart monitor speeds up. “W-What about the transfusion?”

“We’ve already given him two,” Miles says, scrubbing his face. “It helped. I guess.”

Footsteps echo past the door, and the nurse’s thin frame reappears. Miles squeezes MJ’s good hand, whispers, “I’ll be back later, okay?” and all-but leaps out the window just as the nurse opens the door.

“Mary Jane, honey, this is Detective Martinez. Are you feeling okay to talk to him?”

MJ nods, desperately. The nurse steps back, allowing a bulky man to squeeze past her. He’s wearing a tailored shirt and wingtip shoes, has five o’clock shadow and a detective’s badge hanging from his neck, and for a moment his appearance is so much like Anderson’s that MJ’s breath catches.

“Hello, Ms. Watson—” he cuts himself off, eyes dropping to her short, panicked breaths, the fast beeping of the heart monitor. It’s ridiculous, because he’s nothing like Anderson. He’s bulging where Anderson was toned, pleasant where Anderson was needy. Just because he dresses similarly doesn’t mean they’re one and the same.

Not all cops are killers.

But logic has fled amidst the painkillers and exhaustion, and all that remains are animal instincts that scream, _GET AWAY_.

Behind him, the nurse frowns. “I figured she hasn’t recovered yet. Detective, can you come back later?”

He sighs, but backpedals. “Of course.”

“W-Wait,” MJ exclaims.

They pause at the door.

 _He’s not Anderson. He’s not Anderson. He’s not Anderson._ MJ clenches her eyes shut and says, “I need to talk to you about Detective Anderson of the PDNY. He kidnapped me, locked me inside a vault, and almost killed me.”

Silence.

The detective’s brows furrow, and he glances at the nurse. “I need you to leave.”

Face ghostly pale now, she ducks from the room, closing the door behind her. That makes MJ’s heart race even more— _trapped, trapped with this strange man, what if he attacks_ —but it’s ridiculous she’s reacting this way. She bites her cheek hard enough to draw blood, and the spike of pain and metallic taste focuses her mind.

This is important.

Martinez pulls out a pen and pad of paper. “You were found alone near an abandoned building on Allen Street. We followed your trail of blood to a collapsed hallway that hid an old bank vault, with obvious signs of struggle. You’re saying the person who dragged you down there was a police detective?”

It takes several minutes for MJ to understand his question. She expected Yuri to brief the PDNY on what happened, but—Peter was dying, and Yuri isn’t on the best terms with her old employer. So maybe she left MJ where she’d be found, knowing the cops would investigate the building afterwards.

But something’s not adding up. MJ grips the mattress with her good hand as alarms scream in her mind.

“W-Wait. Didn’t you find him down there?”

Detective Martinez presses his lips together. “All we found inside the vault was a mattress, some miscellaneous items, and Spider-Man’s bloody webbing.”

Not Anderson.

MJ feels faint.

“Then he’s still out there,” she whispers.

After all this… Anderson is still hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, four chapters ago, someone requested Peter whump. I am HAPPY to deliver. Sorry it took so long. XD 
> 
> THIS SEEMS LIKE A SERIOUS OVERSIGHT, YURI. WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL THEM ABOUT THE KILLER IN THE BASEMENT, YURI. (But thanks for saving Peter's life, Yuri.)
> 
> Things switch gears from this point on. Now we have to wonder who's hunting who. >:)
> 
> ALSO if you missed it, please allow my shameless promotion of [the OTHER Spider-Man fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995973) I uploaded for you lovelies on Monday. I gave you almost 10k new words in three days. Gotta be some kinda record, right?


	8. The Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ's feeling better, but Peter's recovery is slow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: N/A

They keep MJ overnight for observation, but since they didn’t admit her until 1am, or finish surgery until 5am, that really just means she’s missing a day of work. She tries to convince the nurse she’s fine, check her out, and also please return her cell phone and other personal belongings—and it takes a few hours and the disregard of several doctors’ professional opinions, but finally they hand her the release paperwork.

It's Saturday, so Robbie isn't expecting a check-in, but MJ sends him a flat-out lie about her broken arm anyway. If he gets wind of her involvement here, he'll be demanding answers, and with Peter in this condition, she just doesn't have the energy for it. He tries calling her anyway, and she mutes the phone. He knows she's alive now, at least.  

Slowly, laboriously, she changes clothes—into a hospital tee the doctor provided her out of pity, since a bloodstained blouse would be pretty ostentatious—and the nurse helps her into a wheelchair. Detective Martinez is waiting outside her door, sitting on a chair someone must have positioned after discovering how valuable a witness she is. He glances up, deep bags under his eyes, and stands immediately.

“Oh, Ms. Watson. Leaving so soon?”

“Against all our suggestions, yes,” the nurse says, snidely.

MJ forces a smile. “I feel fine.”

“That’s the painkillers, honey." 

Her sarcasm is a vicious thing. This nurse is much less kind than the plump woman from a few hours ago.

Martinez clears his throat. “Well, we have our best team looking into this claim against Detective Anderson.” Claim. As if he wasn’t the one who lured her into a dark building, then dragged her to the basement and tried to kill her. MJ barely resists scowling now, but it’s a near thing. Martinez seems oblivious to her irritation. “I have your phone number, and we’ll be in touch. Despite your history with Anderson, we’re not convinced you’ll be a target, since your home is outside of the Chinatown Killer’s normal beat.”

He’s being so careful to avoid admitting Anderson’s the killer. MJ narrows her eyes. “Everything in that vault was outside his version of ‘normal,’ Detective.”

Martinez could be a poker player, for all his carefully neutral expression. “We’ll consider the evidence, and if we discover your attacker’s identity, we’ll call you.” Now his lips downturn. “In the mean time, I’d advise you to avoid strolling through a serial killer’s turf so late at night.”

MJ bristles. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Martinez shakes his head and strolls in the opposite direction. The nurse silently wheels MJ to the elevator, then the lobby, then the exit. The woman sounds as irate as MJ feels. “Make sure you schedule a follow-up appointment with your gynecologist.”

MJ doesn’t even _have_ a gynecologist. God, she was not prepared for the events of this week.

“Sure,” she says through gritted teeth.

The nurse rolls her eyes and steps back into the hospital, leaving MJ alone.

She’s pushing out of the wheelchair when Miles comes bounding up, panting. “Wait, wait! Don’t get up yet! Hang on.”

MJ freezes, thinking maybe Peter took a dangerous turn since she texted a half hour ago, maybe he’s dying, maybe Miles _needs_ her to be sitting so she doesn’t faint when he tells her Peter’s already gone, for real this time.

But Miles just skids to a stop beside her chair, chest heaving, and takes hold of her good arm. “Okay, carefully… carefully…”

Oh. One of those “hang on’s,” then. She wants to be annoyed—she’s been getting _those_ all day long—but Miles obviously hasn’t slept, considering he’s been running back and forth between the hospital and Yuri’s warehouse for the last seven hours. So she sighs and says, “Miles, I’m not made of glass.”

“I dunno; your arm broke pretty easily,” he replies, only half joking.

She wrinkles her nose. “Yours would break too if a serial killer slammed it against a metal shelf.” Just saying the words reminds her of that moment, that life-or-death terror, and her stomach churns. She swallows compulsively and pushes out of the chair in one swift move.

And damn it if Miles doesn’t catch her from toppling over. Stupid painkillers must be more potent than she thought.

But he doesn’t say anything and she forces herself to focus on keeping her balance without him. It’s like when she’s drunk, when the world is kind of distant and fuzzy, and concentrating on one thing—for example, her feet and their position on the concrete steps—is about all she can handle.

“Just take it slow,” Miles murmurs, easing her down the staircase. His suit’s lower half just looks like black skinny jeans, and he’s wearing a gray hoodie—clearly a woman’s piece, so probably borrowed from Yuri. His suit’s mask is sticking out of the pocket, but from this angle, it just looks like a dark rag.

“Did you swing here?” she asks, to distract herself from the way New York seems to be likening itself to a tilt-a-whirl. Those doctors were _probably_ right… but she couldn’t stay in that hospital alone anymore. Not when Peter’s just a few blocks away.

Not when he’s possibly dying.

Miles nods. “Well, yeah. Walking would have taken forever.” Now he hesitates. “We calling a cab, or do you want me to try—um—holding you? For swinging, I mean!” His cheeks color, and it’d be almost adorable if the thought of careening between buildings with a barely-trained Spider-Boy didn’t make her stomach churn.

“Save that for Gwen,” she says.

He growls frustration. “I told you, I’m not dating Gwen.”

“You know that’s not a requirement, right?” MJ nearly laughs. They’ve reached the base of the hospital’s steps, and the street’s just a few feet away. Miles positions her beside a nearby bus stop—just a pole stuck in the concrete, really—and steps away to hail a cab. He keeps glancing back at her, which is a good move, since she’s gripping the pole with white knuckles, embarrassingly unsteady.

 _Come on, Watson,_ she thinks darkly, _be better than this._

But her arm is really throbbing now, swaddled in a cast so thick it feels like a club. If she’s honest with herself, she’s really not okay. Not the way she needs to be; not the way _Peter_ needs her to be. At this point, he’s going to be so sick with worry for her that he won’t heal for days.

But pretending is a lost cause, and she knows it. All she has to do is exist, and he worries about her. He’s gotten better at hiding it, but it’s as much a part of him as the spider suit.

After several minutes of trying, Miles finally hails a cab. It pulls to a halt on the curb, and MJ waits until he opens the door before taking a step forward.

She almost crashes into the pavement. Only his impossible reflexes save her from a broken nose, too. His eyes widen, and for the first time, he hesitates. “Hey, um. Maybe—maybe leaving the hospital isn’t such a good idea.”

The look she gives him could peel paint.

He flinches. “I’m just saying, my mom’s a nurse. And she _hates_ patients like you.”

MJ almost snipes back, _well, good thing she wasn’t_ my _nurse,_ but bites her tongue at the last second. Peter’s down, which means Miles is it. For the time being, he’s the sole Spider-Man of New York. It’s a lot of pressure for a sixteen-year-old kid, and she can’t fault him for trying to protect the person his idol cares most about in the world.

The cab driver honks, and MJ shouts, reflexively, “Just a _minute_.” Then she turns back to Miles, brows knitting together, and for the first time all day, she doesn’t hide the anguish in her voice. “ _Please_ , Miles. I have to see Pete.”

Miles swallows, glances at the hospital, then nods once.

They pile into the cab.

 

* * *

 

Yuri’s warehouse is massive—and massively derelict. If MJ thought the old bank was bad, this place looks like it’ll collapse under a strong breeze. Miles winds up carrying her after all, but just to scale the fence that backs to the river, out of sight of the street and curious New Yorkers.

Once inside the fence, he helps her over cracked pavement and overgrown weeds to a rusting metal door that’s been left unlocked. Miles holds the door open for her.  

“Cozy place,” MJ remarks. Then she winces, crossing her arms over her stomach. Trying to hold herself together, even though every time she thinks of Peter, her heart aches. “Sorry. I bet Pete said the same thing.”

“He hasn’t exactly been… conscious,” Miles replies, tired as she’s ever heard him.

They don’t talk after that.

The back door opens into a long, dark hallway that winds through what was probably foreman offices. Everything’s coated in a thick layer of dust, and whenever MJ listens too closely, she can hear rats skittering across the concrete floors.

To her surprise, they wind up climbing a set of stairs, rather than exiting into the main warehouse floor. She scales them of her own accord, shaking her head when Miles offers to carry her up, but by the time she reaches the second floor she’s feeling faint and shaky.

“MJ?” Miles whispers, hovering at her elbow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Nothing about this is okay,” she says, clenching her eyes shut as she braces herself against the grimy corrugated wall. Deep breaths to calm the churning in her gut, the panicked flutter of her heart. After a few moments, the world stops spinning. “Okay. Sorry.”

“Take your time.” He says that like he’s super confident, like this is a normal Saturday for him, but she doesn’t miss the underlying tremor in his voice.

Poor kid.

God, they need Peter.

She nods once, and he points towards an open doorway. The room beyond faces the warehouse floor, with cracked, yellowing windows offering an uninhibited view of what must have been an assembly line during the Industrial Revolution. Most of the machines have been stripped now, but the echoes remain.

MJ isn’t looking at it.

No, her eyes dropped to Peter, and then she has to brace herself on the doorframe to keep from sliding to the floor.

“Oh, shit,” she whispers.

Peter looks _awful_. His face is sallow, a sickly white against the blue pillowcase. Despite the chilly temperatures of the warehouse, he just has one blanket over him, and it’s only pulled up to his bellybutton—which means his injury, bound yet still bleeding, is on full display. MJ’s eyes settle on the red splotch just over his heart, and maybe it’s her imagination, but she swears it’s growing in size.

“You’re out of the hospital faster than I expected,” Yuri says from across the room. She’s perched in a folding chair, angled so she’s facing both Peter and a metal desk, spread with print-outs and case information for the Chinatown Killer. She closes her laptop when MJ nears, pushing to her feet.

Fury surges into MJ’s throat, choking her with unbridled emotion. She hadn’t been thinking of anything but Peter, but that was before she saw Yuri. Before she laid eyes on the woman who saved her boyfriend’s life, yes, but also _conveniently_ didn’t tell the cops about the serial killer in the basement.

MJ can’t contain the growl in her voice. “Well, it would have been faster, but I spent a few extra hours trying to convince the cops Anderson is the one they’re after.”

“One they’re—” Yuri’s face goes carefully blank. “So he escaped.”

“What?” Miles squeaks. All their conversations today, and MJ forgot to fill him in on that little detail. Oops. “What do you mean, he escaped? That webbing shouldn’t have dissolved for another three hours, at least! How—”

“ _Someone_ insisted we leave him alive, that’s how,” Yuri replies coldly. Angrily.

MJ’s angry too. “Sure. Right before _someone else_ didn’t tell the cops where to find him! Who knows how long it took them to sweep that bank?”

Yuri crosses her arms, expression icy as a winter day in the Arctic. “I’m not the one who followed the Chinatown Killer into an abandoned building.”

“He was a cop!”

“If you think cops can’t be dirty, you’re not as smart as—”

“ _Guys!”_ Miles shouts.

They go silent, glancing at him.

He jabs a thumb at Peter, groaning awake on Yuri’s discarded mattress. Sweat beads down his temples and his eyes clench in pain, but he whispers, “MJ—” like she’s the last drink of water in a desert.

Well, between Yuri and Peter, MJ knows where she’d rather be. She sinks to his bedside, smooths his damp hair, presses a kiss to his clammy forehead. All of her exhaustion vanishes as she cups his cheek with her one good hand. “Hey, Tiger. I’m here.”

He pries his eyes open. They’re bright and fever-hazed, but considering his scorching temperature, that’s not surprising. Spider-genes have a tendency to kick into overdrive when they’re healing, and… well, he needs all the help he can get.

Without a word, Yuri sweeps from the room, a dark cloud of fury. She slams the door behind her, making MJ flinch.

“Lovely woman,” she mutters.

“…You _are_ lovely,” Peter replies. Even slurring his words, he’s ever the charmer, isn’t he? But before MJ can roll her eyes, his hand lifts, weakly, to her arm. “You—you’re here, right?”

MJ’s heart stutters. It’s not the fact that she _just_ reaffirmed that she is, indeed, here, and if he’s already forgotten that, he must be worse off than she imagined. No, it’s the whisper of his voice, the pleading tone that almost begs it to be true.

Almost like he asked that before, and it wasn’t.

She glances at Miles, but the kid is studiously avoiding them. He’s leaning over Yuri’s research, sifting through grainy photos from traffic cams and cell phones.

But the guilty expression on his face says it all.

MJ should have forced her release faster. All that time, she was sleeping her morning away, hours where Peter, fever-led and hallucinating, pleaded to see her. She should have _been_ here. But she wasn’t. And that’s Anderson’s fault.

All of this is Anderson’s fault.

Her voice wobbles as she takes Peter’s hand, squeezes hard enough to bruise. “I’m here, Pete. I’m okay. You found me in time.”

“The baby…?”

“Okay. We’re all okay. Just waiting on you to catch up.” She forces a teasing smile.

Peter grins back. “You know me. Notoriously late.”

“Impressive word for someone with a bullet in the heart,” MJ says, even though Peter’s eyes are already fluttering. Panic seizes, and she’s suddenly desperate to keep him awake, desperate to keep him talking.

If he falls asleep, it’s like she’s lost him again.

“Rate it for me. Better or worse than that fight with Rhino in Hell’s Stacks?”

It takes him a moment to respond. He blinks hard, eyes unfocused. The bloodstain over his heart is nearly the size of her fist now, and it definitely wasn’t that big when she staggered into this stupid room.

“D-Different. That ached. This’s… duller.” His voice is a wheeze, and maybe she’s imagining it, but it sounds watery.

She runs her fingers over his bandages, glancing at Miles. “Did Yuri give him any meds?”

“She’s not exactly a pharmacy,” Miles replies. “And trust me, they’d notice if I stole it. Someone tried that on Mom’s shift, and they had the cops there so fast the guy didn’t make it to the lobby.”

Peter’s breath hitches, and his body tenses involuntarily. MJ spins back to him, but when she squeezes his hand, he forces a smile. “S’fine, J. ‘M fine.”

Well, he cut the “M” out of her name, so that’s definitely not true. The bloodstain is growing bigger. MJ grits her teeth. “You’d better be, Parker. I have no intention of being the grieving widow of this story.”

In the corner of her eye, Miles winces. It’s been over a year since his dad died, but—well, they all remember his mother, clutching that folded flag, tears dripping down her cheeks. In the nightmares since, MJ’s substituted herself into that gloomy fall afternoon, standing by an open grave. It’s a little too vivid for comfort.

Peter laughs, a breathy sound that gives way to a stifled groan. “Does—that m-mean you’ll marry me?”

“Tell me you aren’t proposing on your death bed,” MJ deadpans, even as her whole body goes hot at the mention. _Just a joke, just a joke. Jesus Christ, please don’t let that be true_.

Peter’s eyelids drift again. “Playin’ the guilt card. ‘S working?”

MJ flicks his shoulder. “In your dreams.”

“Good dream…” he trails off, and the hand she’s holding goes limp. Her entire body tenses, stress hiking to ungodly levels, but he’s still breathing. It takes a terrified moment, but the rise and fall of his chest is obvious when she looks closely.

Miles kneels on his other side, taking his pulse with the practiced ease of a nurse’s son. He checks his watch and swallows. “Uh, it’s… it’s still not great. I’m gonna go get Yuri. Might be time for another transfusion.”

MJ nods, feeling dazed and distant, like she’s watching this horror show play out in her dreams. A bullet to the heart. How is it that one little man injured Peter more seriously than anyone since Otto?

In that moment, MJ realizes her fury was misplaced. Yuri isn’t the real villain here, and MJ made a mistake, but she’s not the one at fault.

And god damn it, she’ll make him pay for it.

 

* * *

 

 

They hook Peter up to another IV. It takes Yuri and Miles to manage it, since MJ’s too unsteady with her broken arm to help. Instead, she perches on Yuri’s rolling chair, watching the bag drip-drip-drip down the clear tube in Peter’s arm.

He looks terrible.

Miles looks almost as bad, though. Yuri’s obviously used to pulling all-nighters, but Miles is just a kid. He’s practically swaying on his feet when MJ taps his shoulder, points him home.

He hesitates at the doorway. “You sure you don’t need more help?”

“Later,” MJ replies. “He’s not going anywhere for a while.”

Across the room, Yuri harrumphs, but MJ gets the sense she’s not actually mad about her surprise visitors.

Miles frowns. “I could sleep here. My roommate won’t miss me at school—”

“Miles. Go _home_. I promise I’ll call if anything changes.” MJ leaves no room for argument. She’s getting pretty good at that, the older she gets. Or maybe it’s not age, but the motherly instinct coming from her tiny parasite.

Impossible to tell.

Either way, it works. Miles sighs and says, “If you haven’t called me by tonight, I’m coming back. Kay?”

“Fine,” MJ replies, already calculating what time is eight hours from now. Well, nine, counting his commute home and winding down for bed. He’s gotta be exhausted, so she tacks on, “But only if you text me when you get home.”

“Sure, Mom,” he drawls, with just a hint of irony. Then he tugs on the black mask, strips Yuri’s sweatshirt, and vanishes down the staircase of the warehouse.

And then it’s just MJ and Yuri.

And an unconscious Peter, complete with blood bag.

Don’t they make quite the trio?

Yuri stays silent, hunched over her metal table once again. MJ swallows, thinking she should apologize, thank her for helping Peter, _saving_ both of them, even if she’s the one who got them into this mess. But when she opens her mouth, nothing comes out.

She’s too proud, and Yuri’s screwed Peter too often to warrant the words.

Instead, MJ studies the room. It’s… actually kind of homey. She expected Yuri to spiral into this _justice-or-die_ attitude, but clearly she takes pride in her living situation. Well, as much pride as someone squatting in an abandoned warehouse can take. The giant windows overlooking the factory floor are dusty and yellowing, but enough light slips through the cracks that it’s actually kind of serene. The wood floor’s been polished recently, and even the mattress Peter’s laying on—upon closer inspection—is bright white, devoid of stains.

Well, it might be stained now. Yuri’s probably not too happy about that.

There’s a tiny kitchenette in the corner, complete with a microwave and a cooler. A heavy-duty generator beside her desk hooks up to the essentials, although it’s off now. Probably loud as hell when she does turn it on. Although the personal effects are kept to a minimum, there’s a few framed photos of Yuri’s family, some mementos of her life as a cop, and a signed portrait of her old squad. Behind a Japanese folding screen in the far corner of the room, MJ sees the edge of another mattress, with bedding folded in precise military corners.

It’s not much, but it’s very _Yuri_.

Still. “This seems like a lonely setup. Couldn’t you get an apartment?”

“Why bother?” Yuri replies, without removing her eyes from the contents on the metal table.

MJ’s reporter side presses against her mind, nudging her to keep pushing. “Figure a vigilante like you wouldn’t have an issue crafting an alias or five. Just seems weird you’d choose to live in this dusty, abandoned warehouse.”

“It’s not dusty, and it’s not abandoned.” Now Yuri sounds mildly offended. “Look, if you don’t like it, feel free to leave. Take your Spider-boyfriend with you. Thanks to _your_ oversight, I still have a killer to find.”

MJ grinds her teeth now. “ _My_ over—” she cuts herself off, glancing at Peter again. Arguing last time woke him up, and his body’s working too hard for that kind of distraction. She draws a breath through her nose, forces her voice to remain level. “I’m starting to think Peter might be right about you.”

“Makes me wonder why I stayed up all night saving his life, then.”

“Makes me wonder too,” MJ retorts.

Yuri scowls, fingers clenching against the tabletop. After a long moment where MJ mentally curses herself out—Peter’s only alive because of Yuri, even now. She could _try_ and be civil as a thank-you, even if it’s hard—the ex-cop finally sighs. “Look. We don’t see eye to eye, but… I’ve always respected Spider-Man.” Now she pauses, glancing at the unconscious man on the mattress. Her expression shifts from begrudging to concerned. “Um, Peter. I guess. He’s a good guy. One of the only ones I’ve ever met.”

The words could be construed as romantic, but in that moment, MJ knows that wasn't the case. This was always a professional relationship: Peter and Yuri working to make New York safer, however they could.

And honestly, this isn’t the first time Yuri’s gone out of her way to save Peter’s life. The moments after she hauled him into FEAST, broken and bleeding in more ways than one, MJ felt a kinship towards her. Peter and Yuri may have had the working alliance, but MJ and Yuri played nurse—and that’s sometimes far more harrowing.

MJ pushes the rolling chair back a few feet, forming a triangle between Peter and Yuri so she can watch them both at once. After a moment’s consideration of Peter, she says, absently, “He raved about you, you know. He was _so_ excited when you pitched an alliance that night at the docks.”

Yuri slumps over the table, massaging her forehead. She looks exhausted in more ways than one. “’Raved,’ past tense. I guess he’s not my biggest fan now.”

“Well, you’ve become judge, jury, and executioner. That’s not how we do things here,” MJ replies, crossing her arms. It’s blunt, but everything Yuri does these days is blunt. And _Yuri_ isn’t the one holding Peter whenever he has a nightmare about how their partnership dissolved, about what _he_ could have done differently.

 _Nothing_ , MJ swore, over and over. _Yuri made her choice. You can’t blame yourself for it._

And Peter would glance at her, hazel eyes haunted and distant, and whisper, _I could have stopped her._

There’d be no consoling him after that.

Yuri draws a deep breath, but her voice is steady. “I do what needs to be done.”

“You keep saying that, but Spider-Man has operated on a no-kill basis for years, and his enemies are a lot meaner than yours.”

“They’re flashier. Doesn’t mean they aren’t murderers.”

MJ looks her dead in the eyes and says, “So what does that make you?”

After a long moment, Yuri averts her gaze. It should feel like a win, but it doesn’t. MJ turns to Peter’s sallow face, slides off the chair to dab the sweat dripping into his hair. The blood bag is almost drained now, and he _does_ look better—although maybe that’s just MJ’s optimism speaking.

Hey, she can be optimistic. Sometimes.

Yuri chuckles, hollowly, from across the room. “You know, he’s lucky to have you fighting for him.”

MJ almost shrugs, almost responds with something snarky like, _trust me, he knows it._ But somehow, this seems important, like what she says here will replay in Yuri’s mind long after they’re gone. So she thinks carefully about her response, and finally settles on: “He was lucky to have you, too. I know he still hopes you’ll reconsider.”

“It’s too late for me,” Yuri replies automatically.

But for the first time all day, regret filters into her tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't end this quite where I wanted, but I think these conversations needed to happen. I'm kind of excited to build up MJ and Yuri's relationship! :D 
> 
> Sorry for the slight delay with this chapter; I'm just kind of trucking along with this story, but I also:  
> ~ Started plotting my new MG novel  
> ~ Created plans for a YouTube channel about traditional publishing (more details soon!)  
> ~ Worked (cause writing is not as lucrative as I wish it was XD )  
> ~ Edited a work letter... for two days straight. >.>  
> ~ Tied up loose ends for real estate stuff so I can jump into that soon!
> 
> I still plan to be finished with this fic by the end of March! :D Then I might be taking a bit of a break from fanfiction to work on my original stuff... But probably I'll still do a oneshot here and there. :P Just so you guys know what's on the horizon for me! :D :D 
> 
> LOVE Y'ALL NEVER STOP BEING AWESOME!!


	9. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ finally hits her breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Vomiting, a panic attack, and mention of more murders. Surprise surprise. XD

Peter turns a corner that night, right about the same time MJ’s pain meds wear off. Her arm throbs violently, waves of pain that have sweat beading on her forehead and hair matting against her neck, but when he groans awake, she slides to the concrete floor and takes his hand as if nothing’s wrong.

“MJ?” Peter mumbles, and it’s encouraging that he squeezes her fingers a little.

“Here,” MJ whispers. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks. You know, if someone robbed the transport truck and the police shot the money bag and dollar bills went flying into the street and were like, run over by other cars.”

MJ snorts, pressing her good hand against her mouth to stifle the sound. Miles still isn’t back yet—which is good, as far as MJ’s concerned—and Yuri finally retreated behind the Japanese folding screen for a nap herself. But damn it all, staying quiet is hard when relief that Peter’s back to his old, ridiculous self.

“That good, huh?” she snickers. The movement jostles her arm, and she swallows a hiss of pain.

Peter doesn’t notice; he’s still waking up. His fingers flutter over his chest, over the clean white bandages Yuri changed maybe two hours ago. MJ had craned over her shoulder, sighing when she saw his skin—previously puckered beneath Yuri’s precise stitches—was almost entirely smooth now. Blotchy red with a vivid scar, sure, but _sealed_.

As long as the blood stayed in his body where it belonged, MJ couldn’t care less what the skin over his heart looked like.

Peter groans, repositioning his arms to push himself upright. MJ saves her breath in telling him to stay down; they’ve had _that_ conversation before (at least thirteen times a year for… almost a decade), and it always ends with Peter ignoring her.

“Man. That was gnarly,” Peter says, swaying a bit.

MJ steadies him with her good hand, purposefully keeping her cast-covered arm behind him, out of sight. Maybe he’ll forget it ever happened. Maybe he didn’t see it at all, before Anderson shot him. The last thing he needs is to be panicked about _her_.

“’Gnarly?’ What, you some California surfer now?” MJ teases.

Peter raises his eyebrows, mildly offended. “California? Don’t insult me.”

MJ smirks, even as another wave of pain settles over her shoulders. It takes every ounce of energy to keep her expression smooth, pretend it isn’t happening. Really, this is ridiculous; it’s just a broken arm. They already did surgery, already fixed the problem. Just because the meds are wearing off doesn’t mean she can’t handle a little pain.

“Where are we?” Peter glances around, rubbing his face. His skin’s back to a normal, healthy pink, although there are still bags under his eyes. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be perfectly fine, and it kind of pisses MJ off. She’ll be in a cast for six weeks, minimum, and her injury wasn’t nearly as serious.

Stupid spider-genes.

She gestures at the picture frames lining the far wall. “Yuri’s home sweet home.” She keeps her voice down, nods at the Japanese folding screen, at the mattress hidden behind it. “She’s taking a nap. I sent Miles home a while ago.”

Now Peter looks at her, really looks. “What about you? Have _you_ taken a nap?”

“I mean, I slept all night,” MJ replies, breezily.

“ _MJ_.” He uses a firm tone, but somehow makes it gentle enough, pleading enough, that she can’t ignore it. His brows knit together as he squints at her.

She swallows, fighting yet another wave of pain. It’s like pulsing that emanates from her cast, concentrated around the area where her bone pierced skin. Just thinking about it makes her stomach churn, and she really thinks she might be sick if she keeps this up.

Slowly, reluctantly, she lifts her left arm into his line of sight. The movement jostles it enough she has to bite her lower lip to keep from whimpering. Then she tastes blood. Awesome.

Peter inhales sharply, eyes widening.

MJ forces a grin. “I told you I slept. Just—in the hospital.”

Peter chokes. “W-What happened? Did Anderson do that?”

So he didn’t see before he was shot. It all happened so fast, it’s not terribly surprising. MJ shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as her stomach curdles at the memory of Anderson grabbing her arm, face red with rage, and slamming it against a metal shelf. She’s not sure she’ll ever forget the _crack_ that echoed through that vault.

“I mean, he’s a murdering asshole,” she says. “I think I got off lucky.”

Peter’s expression darkens. “’Lucky’ would be us realizing what he was _before_ he trapped you in a basement.” Anger simmers in his words, although MJ isn’t sure how much is directed at Anderson versus Peter’s good, old-fashioned Parker luck.

“Yeah, it sucks.” Understatement of the year. Still, MJ squeezes his arm, forcing a smile. “But you saved my life. You and Miles and Yuri. I don’t—” she cuts herself off, swallows past the lump choking her, “—I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t ripped open that vault.”

Peter swears under his breath, face paling, and this time it’s not because of his injury. “I should have been faster, MJ. You shouldn’t have been down there at all. I can’t _believe_ it was the detective this whole time.”

“I’m the one who talked with him. Trusted him. _I_ should have figured it out sooner,” MJ mutters, grinding her teeth. For once, she embraces the pain sweeping through her. She’s an investigative journalist, for god’s sake, and she spent _days_ following around a crazed serial killer.

He’d just… seemed so normal. She really thought she had him pinned.

Joke’s on her.

Peter sighs, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “We can’t beat ourselves up over it.”

“Tell me that's on the record.”

He snorts. “God, I love you.”

MJ’s face grows warm, and she kisses him. His lips are dry and cracked, but the warmth—the _life_ —behind them makes her happier than she’s been in days. When she pulls back, they’re both panting, and he rests his forehead against hers, his hand snaking around her neck like she’s all he has in the world.

Say what he will about Parker luck, but MJ feels pretty goddamn lucky right now.

“It’s just the arm, right? You’re not like, bleeding internally, or—” his voice drops from a whisper to barely audible, “—we haven’t lost the baby, have we?”

“Oh, Pete,” MJ kisses him again, shaking her head against his lips. He must not remember his fevered conversation with her hours earlier. “No, no. The baby’s okay.”

Peter’s whole body sags. “Thank _god_.”

MJ can’t feel the same relief. It’s not the pain, or the stress, or the exhaustion. It’s the not-knowing. Not knowing where Anderson is, not knowing if he’s out there killing again, not knowing if they’ll ever be able to stop him. What if he skipped town?

…Or worse, what if he didn’t?

She almost tells Peter. Almost confides what she and Miles did, how they refused to let Yuri kill Anderson, how they left him for a trial and a jury and he escaped before seeing any of it. She almost tells Peter he’s still out there.

But this close to Peter’s face, she can see his breathing is still shallow, still pained. His eyes are a little glazed. He’s holding onto her a bit harder than necessary, as if he can’t quite stay upright without the support.

He needs more time, less stress. If she plays her cards right, he’ll go back to bed, and when he wakes up tomorrow he’ll be perfectly fine. But if she tells him this now, there’s a _solid_ chance he’ll don his blood-stained suit and go hunting. Even injured. Even hours from near-death.

So she smiles. “Yeah. We’re all okay.”

And after they lay down, after he scootches over on the twin mattress to make room for her, his arm encircling her shoulders, her cast resting on his wrapped stomach, there’s a moment where MJ hopes that maybe, just maybe, the worst is behind them.

But she doesn’t really believe it.

 

* * *

  

It’s a terrible night.

That’s kind of expected, though, considering her physical condition. A low-grade fever sets in about midnight, and after tossing and turning in a hazed sleep, MJ finally extracts herself from Peter’s grip to get some fresh air. It’s a testament to his recovery that he doesn’t even flinch when she wiggles off the bed.

Yuri’s awake now, although she’s moved her operation to one of the lower level offices. MJ follows the hum of the generator until she finds the ex-cop, glued to her laptop, taking notes on a grainy black-and-white video of a Chinatown street.

She opens her mouth to ask about it, but a near-silent buzzing in her pocket catches her attention instead. The fact that anyone’s calling her so late means it’s an emergency, and MJ staggers the few steps to the metal door, emerging into the chilly night.

It feels _fantastic_ after the stifling heat of her fever, the stale air of the warehouse. A wave of dizziness hits her, so she sinks onto a nearby shipping crate, catching the call on its final ring.

“Hello?” It’s barely a croak, drowning in pain like she is. MJ winces, but it’s too late.

“Watson?” Robbie barks. “You sound terrible.”

“Well, you caught me sleeping,” she lies.

Robbie sounds mildly apologetic. “Didn’t mean to call you so late, but they found another body. Over in Greenwich this time.”

MJ goes cold, goosebumps pebbling across her body. For a moment, she thinks she misheard. “ _What_?”

“You said you broke your arm; you still want this? Cause if not, I’m gonna get O’Donald on it—”

“W-Wait, wait!” MJ’s mind is whirling. “Someone else was killed? And now he’s moved to Greenwich? Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

 _Anderson_ , her brain whispers.

She feels really sick now.

“Same MO, just a few streets west of where he normally operates,” Robbie replies, matter-of-fact. “It’s all over the news, Watson. How bad is that arm?” He knows as well as she does that she lives and breathes the daily news reports. Even in bed, she’s usually cycling through articles on her phone.

But nothing about this week is “usual.”

Panic races through her at the thought of Robbie taking this story. O'Donald is a good reporter, but he doesn't know what she does about Anderson. And he can't; until the police offically list him as a suspect, or she finds  _real_ evidence of his involvement, Anderson's untouchable. 

Desperate, she lies. Again. “It’s really just a bad sprain, Robbie. I’m on this. I’ll get the scoop and have a rough draft emailed to you by morning.”

How, she has no idea, but maybe she can call Miles and have him sling her—

And then Robbie harrumphs. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

MJ stops cold. “Not sure it’s a good idea to report on a serial killer?” Anger filters into her voice. It’s personal now, even if Robbie doesn’t know it.

“Not sure if it’s a good idea for _you_ to report on it. Watson, the woman was killed a few hours ago, maybe a block from your apartment. Another redhead. You fit the profile a little too cleanly—”

MJ isn’t listening anymore. A block from her apartment? She feels faint, her heart racing, lungs aching for air.

 _“I was gonna make this slow—enjoyable,”_ he’d said.

 _“A girl of your personality is too good to rape in an alley,”_ he’d crooned.

He’d waited for her. From the moment she put herself in his sights after his first murder, Anderson was obsessed with her. He got her an exclusive on the case, ensured she’d be next to him every step of the way. He’d done research to prove how extensive the “investigative” part of her job description really was.

Which meant he knew she’d track him herself, eventually. The only thing he hadn’t counted on was Spider-Man, but even that wasn’t enough to stop him.

And now that she’d escaped, and he’d escaped, it’s a chase. She just isn’t the hunter anymore.

“—sicko like this probably already read your articles. All he’d need to see is a picture, and you’d be on his radar.” Robbie keeps talking, his tone grim. “I don’t like it, Watson. I think it’s better if O’Donald takes this one.”

She can’t tell Robbie what they did last night. The true reason she broke her arm. If he finds out she went around the cops, tried to capture a serial killer on her own, he wouldn’t just take the story. He’d fire her outright for reckless endangerment.

This job is everything to her. Without it, she’s just a future stay-at-home mom.

She can’t—she _won’t_ —lose herself like that.

So she removes herself from the situation. “Y-Yeah. O’Donald can take it.”

Robbie sounds shocked. “What? Just like that?”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” MJ’s shaking now, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Her fingers dig into the soft wood of the shipping crate, and it creaks under her grip. “I’ll send O’Donald what I have. It’s… it’s probably best I take a few sick days anyway.”

“Cause of your arm? Good. I was going to recommend that next,” Robbie says, suspicion underlying his tone. But she’s saying exactly what he wants to hear, so he doesn’t press it further. “I’ll send your next assignment on Wednesday. Until then, enjoy the weekend and get some rest.”

“Sure. Bye.”

She hangs up, stares at the screen. It’s early Sunday morning, which means she’s just bought four days for their manhunt. And she won’t have to worry about losing her job in the meantime.

Still, a sick sense of failure settles in her bones, heavier than exhaustion, pain, stress. She fought for this story. Met Anderson. Gained real headway… like a moth to the flame.

And now she’s been burned.

It’s an awful feeling.

Suddenly, being out here in the open air, all alone, exposed, terrifies her. She wants to be back on that mattress with Peter, writhing in pain, pretending to sleep. At least there, she felt _safe_.

But when she pushes to her feet, down is suddenly up and the world spins and she’s tipping sideways before she knows it, reaching for the shipping crate, desperate to catch anything but pavement—and then a dark suit swoops down and strong hands grip her shoulders and she’s face-to-face with wide, white lenses.

“Woah, hey!” Miles eases her onto the shipping container a second time. She grips it, blinking hard, swallowing nausea. Miles seems to realize it, too, because he steps sideways, offering her more space. “MJ?”

“I’m fine,” she gasps.

“You kind of seem the opposite of fine.”

“Let me rephrase. I _have_ to be fine.” She clenches her eyes shut, draws shallow breaths until acid isn’t burning her throat. “Peter doesn’t need to be worrying about me right now.”

Miles hesitates. “Look, I don’t mean to—to butt into something private. But… you know you’re pregnant, right?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” she deadpans, shooting him a dark look.

Miles holds up his hands. “I’m just saying, Peter wasn’t the only one hurt in that vault. You checked yourself out of the hospital early, you don’t have super-healing like we do, and—I’m gonna venture a guess to say you haven’t had pain meds in like, what? Twelve hours?”

Sweat drips down her face, _tip-tip_ ping on the dirty concrete. She’s honestly lost track of when the nurses last gave her meds. “Trust me, I’m regretting it now.”

Miles sighs. “Man, my mom _hates_ patients like you. Just… take it easy, dude. We’re not going anywhere for a while. Get some rest.”

“He killed another woman.”

She delivers the words quietly, but the reality of it makes her stomach flip again. This time, it’s all she can do to stumble behind the shipping crate, vomit until her lungs ache and her arm hurts so badly she’s close to blacking out from the pain. She coughs twice, shaking all over, and spits, but the smell almost makes her puke again.

Miles takes hold of her shoulders a second time, pulling her several feet away. He rubs her back until she doesn’t feel like heaving anymore, until the crisp evening air chases away the surge of heat that always accompanies true nausea.

“MJ, you need to lie down—”

“He killed someone else, Miles,” she snarls, the words cracked and broken. “We—We told Yuri not to kill him. And then he escaped, and now some innocent woman was murdered and left in some alley a few blocks from my place.”

“By your—” Miles breaks off, ripping off his mask. His curly hair is frizzy from the static of it, but his eyes are wide and horrified. “H-Hang on. You saying he left Chinatown?”

MJ moans, clenching her eyes shut as she braces against him. “He’s in Greenwich now. He’s killing redheads because he lost _me_. It’s all my fault. Everything is my fault.”

Now Miles glares, angrily. “Dude, what part of _serial killer_ are you missing? He’s psycho, Mary Jane. You didn’t tell him to kill those women. You were the only one who managed to identify him!”

“The cops don’t even believe me.”  

She’s spiraling, and she knows it, but god, it feels like she’s drowning. Kicking and clawing through weighted water for a surface she hasn’t seen in days. Peter’s doing better, but only just. Yuri has no more leads. Robbie took her off the case. Miles is just a kid. It’s up to MJ to catch Anderson, and—suddenly, it doesn’t seem like she can do it anymore.

She gasps past shuddering sobs. “T-The cops don’t believe me, Miles. What if he shows back up to work, and it’s his word against mine? Why didn’t we set up a camera or recording device before we started looking for him? Is it worse if—if he’s gone, or that he might come b-b-back—?”

“Hey, MJ, I need you to breathe for me, okay? In and out. Deep breaths—”

She can’t even hear him. Her mind is a sick, tangled web of terror, of guilt, and her thoughts are so disjointed she can barely attach words to them. “I just—I don’t know—it’s my fault, all my fault—”

“MJ!”

 _Peter_.

His voice slices through the fog, a buoy in the dark, and she latches onto it with everything she has left. His strong arms are suddenly around her, replacing Miles, who she vaguely hears whisper, “Thank god, man, she’s having a panic attack,” before Peter’s hot breath is on her ear.

“You’re fine, you’re okay. Okay, Mary Jane? Shh. Deep breaths, just like Miles said. Okay? Let’s do them together. In... and out.” He buries his nose in her gross, sweaty hair, his arms like a vice around her shoulders. His voice is stronger than she’s heard in hours, more confident than she’s heard in days. It’s exactly what she needs. Someone else to hold the weight, just for a moment, until she can get herself together.

She inhales sharply, the first full breath in a long time, and it almost cuts through the cloud of pain and fear.

“You’re okay,” he keeps murmuring, rocking back and forth with her. His chest is still bare, and he shivers in the chilly midnight air, but doesn’t dare relinquish his grip until her body stops shuddering, until she sags against him, utterly drained.

Everything feels foggy. Some deep part of her brain is moaning in embarrassment, shouting at her to straighten up, that she’s _Mary Jane Watson_ , damn it—but the rest of her is so, so tired of carrying things.

She just… doesn’t want to carry anything anymore.

But that’s why Peter’s there. Already, he scoops her into his arms, lifting her like she’s made of paper, delicate origami he doesn’t want to damage. She hates it.

She needs it.

“Miles,” Peter says, softly. She sees his mouth moving against a backdrop of stars, but it’s like a movie with a broken reel, where everything’s cutting in and out, distorted and wobbly. “Go—clothes. –Yuri—going home.”

Home. That sounds nice.

MJ doesn’t hear what happens next. She gives into the darkness, falling in the comfort of Peter’s grip.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up as Peter is carefully maneuvering her through a tight doorway. Her vision swims, but her arm has settled into mere throbbing, far less vicious than before. Or maybe she's just too exhausted to notice anything else. 

She does, however, recognize her kitchen immediately, cheap wooden cabinets and laminate countertops and the pictures of her and Peter hung on the walls. They're home. Thank _god_.

But the relief is short-lived. Because as she regains her wits, feels Peter’s left arm around her back, right arm under her knees, cradling her in a strong grip with her ear pressed against his steadily beating heart, she remembers.

She remembers _everything._

Cheeks burning for a totally different reason now, MJ groans, long and loud.

“MJ! Are… are you still hurting? Don't worry; Miles picked up your prescription at the hospital. I was gonna wake you in a minute to take them.” He’s keeping his voice low, calming, but she doesn’t miss the way he freezes just inside their apartment, as if stepping one more foot would cause her more discomfort.

“It's not the arm. That—that didn’t happen. Right, Pete?” She grips his shirt, almost desperately. It’s a thin black one that’s far too tight on him; once again, probably a woman’s piece, lent begrudgingly by Yuri.

Peter looks confused. “I mean, a lot of terrible things happened lately. What are you asking about?”

“The _panic attack_ ,” she hisses, mortified.

“Oh. Um, yeeeah?” He stretches out the word, as if he’s not sure it's the right answer.

She wiggles in his grip, then gasps as her arm throbs viciously. Oh, hello, pain. Apparently she was just too tired to notice it before. Amidst the crippling waves of agony, she manages to grind out, “P-Put me down, Pete. I’ve got to—” she cuts herself off, because unless she can find a time machine, she has no idea how to fix this.

“Ah, I don’t think so,” Peter replies, forcing a light tone even as his eyes flash. He kicks the front door closed, then strolls for their bedroom. “I think it’s time for a couple pain pills and _actual_ sleep. You know, the kind I’m starting to suspect you haven’t had in a while?”

MJ moans again. She’s being melodramatic, but everything else has gone to hell tonight, so why not? “In front of Miles and _everything_. Christ, he must think I’m so weak. Or—” her breath hitches. “—or hormonal. Oh god, Pete, what if I’m hormonal?”

“I mean, considering you're pregnant, I sure hope you’re hormonal,” he replies, far too logically.

She hits his chest without thinking. He wheezes, nearly misses a step, clenching his eyes in pain as he regains his footing.

MJ inhales. “Peter! Shit, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he replies, forcing a grin. “Really, it’s great bragging rights. I can’t wait to spontaneously burst into song on our next anniversary. Thinking Bon Jovi's  _You Give Love A Bad Name_ is way more appropriate now.”

“Oh, no. Please don’t.”

“Hey. I’m a great singer, and I’m offended you’d imply otherwise.” He eases her onto the bed. She takes a moment to survey him, but he really does look okay. Her fluttering heart eases back into something more steady, more reassuring, especially when his expression softens and he takes a seat next to her on the bed. “Anderson...  _he’s_ the one killing people. Not you. You know that, right?”

“Do I know that I’m not out there murdering women?” she tries to sound deadpan, almost amused, but it’s still too soon, and it just comes out wobbly and sad. “Yeah. Thanks, Pete.”

Peter's hazel eyes capture her gaze, uncharacteristically serious.

“It’s not your fault, MJ.”

She plucks at a loose string on the bedspread. “Feels like it is.”

“It’s not,” he repeats, fiercer.

“He got away, Pete. He got away because _I_ told Yuri not to kill him. And then he killed someone else.” Her voice is barely audible by the end of it. This time, she just feels dull, blank. After the panic attack, she doesn’t have more emotion. She’s so, so tired.

And so, so sad.

“I know. Miles told me.”

He knows. He _knows_ Anderson got away, even after MJ was trying to spare him the stress. Why did she have to break down so spectacularly? She slumps against the plush pillows, clenching her eyes shut even as tears slip down her cheeks.

“Mary Jane?”

“I told you it’s my fault.”

Peter sighs, then takes her chin, gently guiding her gaze back to his. His voice is teasing. “You’re not the only one after this guy, so stop taking all the credit. It's kind of rude.”

MJ isn't in the mood for jokes. “I’m the one who told Yuri not to shoot him—”

“And then Miles backed you up. And if I hadn’t been shot, I’d have done the same thing.” Peter shakes his head. “Shit, MJ, we don’t _kill_ people on Team Spider. Saving someone is never the wrong move, no matter how awful they are.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Then MJ repeats, “Team Spider?”

He quirks a grin. “Been thinking of trying that one out. Too much?”

“It’s pretty kitschy.”

“Hey. I resemble that remark.”

MJ laughs now, a watery sound that dies as fast as it came. But still… it feels good.

Peter wipes her cheeks and presses a kiss to her forehead. “We’re in this together. Always. And we’re going to catch this guy. Just… not tonight. Tonight, I think you need some rest, okay?”

She doesn’t even have the energy to argue. She just nods, and he smiles wider.

“I’ll get your pills. I checked with Mrs. Morales, and she said you can take the B6 vitamins with the pain meds. Have you eaten?"

"Haven't had much time to eat," she replies honestly.

"Then Nurse MJ needs to step aside." He puts his hands on his hips, puffing his chest dramatically. The tight black shirt stretches thin across his muscles, a sight MJ would normally love to admire. Maybe next time. He inflects his voice about two octaves deeper than usual, and it sounds ridiculous: "Now it’s Spider-Nurse’s turn!”

“Gotta admit, Pete, that's even worse.” MJ laughs.

Peter winks. "You won't be saying that when you're full and happy. Gimme a minute." He leaves her in the bedroom, strolling into the kitchen. She hears the rattling of a pill bottle, the running faucet, him rifling through their cabinets for a can of soup or something. It all becomes white noise in the background.

MJ stares at the ceiling for a long moment. He’s probably right. She’s not out there killing people. And just because Anderson’s free right now doesn’t mean he will be for long. Team Spider’s on the case.

Well, Team Spider, minus MJ. She really does need sleep, and a lot of it. 

The hospital shirt is scratchy and uncomfortable, so she strips to her underwear best she can. There’s a Spider-Man tank top with her name on it. She swallows a yawn and wobbles her way to the dresser.

But when she opens her pajama drawer, there’s a post-it note perched on top of her folded clothes. The handwriting is carefully cursive, swirly and lovely despite the chilling message:

 

_Found you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg poor MJ. I just like, adore her being strong and amazing until she physically can't anymore, and then breaking down SO spectacularly. Self-care is important, Mary Jane. What you doin.
> 
> Also Miles. I just--I can't with that kid. 
> 
> TOTAL SIDE NOTE, does anyone have fanart of Peter / MJ? I can like, only find SUPER outdated stuff from the ancient comics, or like, Peter / Michelle. And I'm DYING guys. Where is the PS4 game fanart???? T.T 
> 
>  
> 
> OH ALSO
> 
> _begin shameless promoting_
> 
>  
> 
> GUYS. I also started a [YOUTUBE CHANNEL](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZdJwCYmqREp3MhjNJfF2kA). It's basically just me, rambling about publishing, but if you were ever curious on how to get published, you should go check it out. :D :D :D 
> 
>    
>  _end shameless promoting_
> 
>  
> 
> THANKS FOR READING I LOVE Y'ALL!!!  
> But seriously fanart please


	10. The Offensive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ's ready to take the offensive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Stalking, trespassing.
> 
> Also, please ignore my last chapter, where I said the murders happened in Midtown. I don't know why I forgot that MJ lives in Greenwich, not Midtown. XD It's fixed there, and will proceed as if that mistake never happened!

MJ stiffens. Goosebumps pebble on her skin, and her heart drops into her stomach. The note flutters to the ground as she scrambles backwards, gasping air. “Pete—” she chokes on his name, spinning to study every inch of her bedroom.

The bedroom Anderson might still be in.

“ _Peter!_ ”

Her boyfriend comes running.

“MJ? What—”

She points at the note. An innocent yellow square, bright against their beige carpet. It landed face-down, so he can’t read the lettering, that swirly cursive that signifies a chilling invasion of privacy. Somehow, she’d have felt less exposed stripping naked in the middle of Times Square.

Peter squeezes her arm, bends to pick up the note. She sees the exact moment he processes what it says.

What it means.  

His entire body tenses, and he leaps to his feet with superhuman speed. “Stay here,” he says, colder than she’s ever heard, angrier than she ever imagined. He drops to his stomach, chops under the bed. Nothing. Leaps to his feet, kicks the curtains. The blinds rattle against the windowsill, swaying in the breeze.

Systematically, Peter tears through every possible hiding place in their tiny apartment. But Anderson’s gone, and somehow… somehow that’s worse.

“I can’t believe it,” Peter says, fury weighing his tone. “That _asshole_.” It’s a curse he rarely uses, and it startles MJ out of her shock. Peter’s probably not thinking straight, which means she has to be the level-headed one now.

She fights past the fog of exhaustion, the piercing pain that slices through her every time she moves her cast. Goosebumps pebble her skin every time she sees the crumpled yellow note Peter tossed on the kitchen counter, right next to her bowl of soup, but she forces her eyes away, trying to settle on what’s happened.

Anderson broke into her apartment. Left a note where only she’d find it. Then vanished before anyone could catch him.

Anderson prides himself on being smarter than anyone else. Prides himself on taking control of every situation.

And he’s obsessed with her.

MJ sets her jaw. “It’s a mind game.”

“What?” Peter asks, harshly. He seems to realize the tone he’s taken and scrubs his face. “S-Sorry. If it’s a mind game, it’s working. Jesus, MJ, he was _right here_. Who knows what else he left?”

“Or took,” MJ mumbles.

Peter flinches, hands balling into fists. “I’m going to kill this guy. If there’s ever a guy to kill, it’s him.”

“You _just_ finished saying Team Spider doesn’t kill people,” MJ reminds him, scanning her apartment for the umpteenth time. This time, though, the curtains over the living room window are swaying in a nonexistent breeze.

Her heart nearly stops.

Peter follows her gaze, frowns. “I checked those drapes—”

“It’s not that,” MJ says. Anderson’s gone; even if the movement made her think he was there, logic says there’s literally nowhere he could have hid during Peter’s hunt. But—there’s only one reason those drapes would be moving, otherwise.

MJ strides across the room, pulls the curtains back, and feels the windowsill.

It’s unlocked.

Of course it is. Just a couple days ago, she was telling Miles how it’s _always_ unlocked. Prime entry for spider-people, after all. Spider-people… and apparently their local serial killer. Awesome.

“This is how he got in,” MJ says, running a finger along the windowsill. The dust has been wiped clean. Peter always skirts the side of it, slides in without ruining his suit along the edges of the window. Miles may have fumbled through the entry, but even he didn’t wipe the entire base of the sill.

No, the only thing that would have cleaned it so resolutely is someone hauling themselves inside the old fashioned way.

Anderson must have looked ridiculous, trying this.

“Look. The dust is gone,” MJ says for Peter’s benefit.

He steps closer, squinting over her shoulder. “Okay. Except you know the fire escape’s on the _bedroom_ window, right? Like, he would have had to pull some crazy parkour stunt to get over here.”

“There’s a ledge just below the window,” MJ says, hiking up the glass. He probably never noticed before, since ledges mean absolutely nothing to a guy who can climb walls.  Peter sticks his head outside, glancing down as she continues, “He saw you, Pete. You and Miles. He must—” she draws a shaking breath, “—he must have put two and two together.”

“He knows my identity—?” Peter chokes, ducking back inside and slamming the window shut. This time, he locks it, then pulls the drapes in a sharp move.  

MJ’s face burns. “He shot you, and I didn’t think. I just… screamed. I know he heard your name. And if I reacted like that, he must have figured out who you are. What you mean to me.”

She can just imagine Anderson putting the pieces together:

Anderson shoots Spider-Man, and MJ breaks down.

Therefore, MJ must have a personal connection to Spider-Man.

Spider-Man is known to enter buildings through rooftops and windows.

Therefore, Spider-Man would visit MJ’s apartment through a window.

If Anderson can climb the fire escape, there’s a good chance one of MJ’s windows will be unlocked, just in case Spider-Man visits. All he had to do was climb the ladder and test his theory out.

She made it so _easy_ for him.

And what if he figures out she’s living with Peter Parker, huh? What if he puts _that_ puzzle together? Every second Anderson’s out there, prowling around, is another second Peter’s life could fall to shambles.

She starts to tremble now, feeling the panic rising again. She’s in such pain, she’s so tired, and now—now Anderson really messed with her head. His cheap stalking tactic worked, and she’s outright _terrified._

Just not for herself.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Peter,” she whispers.

Peter glances at her, and his panicked expression smooths into something softer. He offers a smile and pulls MJ into a gentle hug. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Look, let’s handle one problem at a time, all right? We know how he got inside, so… so we keep this window locked. And he won’t hurt you when I’m around, all right?”

“I’m not worried about _me_ , idiot,” MJ says, breath hitching at the memory of Peter’s body jerking backwards from the force of the bullet, of him crashing into Yuri’s arms in that grimy basement. Unresponsive. Bleeding.

Dying.

Peter sighs, pulling her over to the couch. “Well, _I’m_ worried about you. Your soup’s getting cold, and you still need pain meds.” He eases her to the plush couch cushions, kisses her forehead, and strolls to the kitchen for her food.

But MJ doesn’t miss the way he plucks his cell phone out of his pocket, texts someone when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Miles? Or Yuri?

Pain radiates from MJ’s broken arm, and exhaustion has settled over her like a blanket, dulling the sharp sting of Anderson’s note. She sinks into the cushions, resting her chin on a dark green pillow, staring relentlessly at the living room window until Peter puts a bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of her.

“I’m going to find him, MJ,” Peter says, handing her a spoon. “Let me focus on that. You focus on feeling better.”

She’s not the one recovering from a bullet to the heart, but she nods anyway, too tired to argue. Too sick to respond.

But tomorrow will be different.

She’ll make sure of it.

 

* * *

  

Her phone rings early the next morning. MJ hears it from the bedroom, fights past the fog of pain killers, the haze of sleep. “Pete,” she mumbles, reaching for his side of the bed.

Empty.

In the living room, her ringer goes quiet, and Peter whispers, “Hello?”

MJ stiffens. He’s answering her phone? What if it’s Robbie? Or—Or _Anderson_? She doesn’t _get_ unimportant phone calls. Desperate, she propels herself out of bed, but a wave of dizziness smacks her like a brick to the face. She nearly falls to her knees, grabs the night stand at the very last second. The lamp tilts, teeters, but ultimately settles.

It takes a minute for MJ’s heart to settle the same way, though. She blinks hard to center herself, drawing shallow breaths. Her arm is just throbbing dully now, a _very_ welcome change after the excruciating pain last night… but if this is the trade off, it’s not worth it.

At least last night she could think.

Mostly.

She scrubs her face with her good hand and staggers to the bedroom, forcing herself awake. Forcing her mind to respond to the crisis at hand.

Peter. On her phone.

“Pete,” she hisses. “Who is it?”

“Oh, um, hang on,” Peter says, then mutes the phone and steps beside her. “MJ, you really shouldn’t be up yet. That was only like, six hours.”

Well, it’s sunny outside, bright and cheery, which means she already slept too long. Peter changed out of Yuri’s tight black shirt into something a little more his style: red plaid. He looks perfectly healthy now, as if a bullet hadn’t lodged near his heart forty-eight hours ago. It’s incredibly reassuring, but also… kind of frustrating.

She shakes off his concern. “Who’s on my phone?”

“Ah, the cops.” He glances at her cell, pressing his lips into a thin line.

The fact that he doesn’t offer more information means whoever’s on the other end won’t discuss anything with Peter. Unsurprising, all things considered. She holds out her hand. “Let me talk to them.”

Peter squints at her. “You’re slurring your words, Watson.”

“ _Parker_.”

He sighs, hands her the phone. She unmutes it and moves around him, stumbling to the couch. But she does allocate an extra few seconds to enunciate her words, so the detective doesn’t hear weakness.

“This is Mary Jane.”

The voice on the other end is gruff, familiar. “Oh, good, Ms. Watson. This is Detective Martinez. We met at the hospital.”

“I remember,” MJ says, deadpan. In her drugged-up state, with irritation curdling in her chest, she can’t resist adding, “You’re the cop who implied I _enticed_ a serial killer into attacking me.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Peter leans over the back of the couch—although with his hearing, he doesn’t need to be so close. In her peripheral, his expression is dark, jaw clenched as he eavesdrops.

Martinez didn’t hear Peter’s muttered words, and he chooses to ignore MJ’s hostile tone. “There’s been a development in your case. I just wanted to confirm you’re at your apartment in Greenwich before I stop by.”

“You can tell me what you need to over the phone.”

“It’s more of a face-to-face conversation, Ms. Watson.”

MJ doesn’t want a stranger seeing her like this. And she _really_ doesn’t want a male detective from Anderson’s precinct strolling into her apartment, even with a heads-up. She’s had enough of _that_ lately, thank you.

“Let me guess,” she says, her voice cold. “You went back to the bank vault and took prints, and they match Anderson’s. You double-checked the security cameras in Chinatown and saw him lead me right into that abandoned building. And now Detective Anderson hasn’t shown up for work, making him your lead suspect.”

Martinez goes quiet.

“How’d I do, detective?” MJ asks. Peter squeezes her shoulder, steps into the kitchen instead of hovering. Apparently he realized she can handle this on her own. Rookie mistake, thinking she couldn’t, even on meds.

Martinez sounds mildly annoyed. “We’ve put out an APB on Anderson, but he wasn’t at his apartment. For your protection, we’d like to station a police officer outside your apartment.”

“Considering he already snuck in through my living room window last night, you’re a little late,” MJ says, sharper than usual. She’s definitely awake now.

In the kitchen, Peter drops a cup. It clatters to the ground, bouncing against the linoleum. “MJ,” he whispers, frantic, “what are you doing? Do you _want_ cops swarming this place—”

“Excuse me?” Martinez exclaims over the phone.

MJ holds a finger to silence Peter, then says, “Anderson left a note inside my dresser, but he was long gone by the time I got home. There’s a very real chance he’s still watching my apartment, so if you want to be useful, you’ll set cops on a patrol around my neighborhood, not sitting outside my front door.”

Martinez sounds indignant now. “Ms. Watson, if someone broke into your apartment, you need to file a police report. We’ll need to take your statement, get photos—”

“Of my underwear?” MJ shakes her head. “No thanks.”

“It directly pertains to a murder investigation—”

If there’s one thing MJ hates, it’s cops trying to strong-arm someone into submission. Irritation sparks in her chest. “I’m the _victim_ here, Martinez. Anderson kidnapped me, tried to kill me, and when I told you he was responsible, you made me feel like it was my fault. You know who actually made a difference? Spider-Man. He’s the one who tracked me into that vault and webbed Anderson to the wall. Your people are the ones who let him get away.”

In the kitchen, Peter’s cheeks are bright red. He’s pretty cute embarrassed like that. MJ should sing Spider-Man’s praises more often.

Meanwhile, Martinez is fighting to stay calm. “If you withhold information about the Chinatown Killer, you’re obstructing justice—”

“No, I’m exercising my right to freedom of speech. Or _not_ speaking, in this case,” MJ says. “You had the chance to impress me, and you lost it. I’d be happy to talk to someone in charge. When Captain Holmes is available, give me a call.”

She hangs up.

In the kitchen, Peter groans. “Was that necessary?”

“He’s an asshole,” MJ says, bitterly. “And frankly, I don’t trust him.”

“You think he’s working with Anderson?”

MJ hooks her good arm over the back of the couch, tossing her phone onto the other cushion. “No. I think Anderson’s working alone. But there’s no reason the captain of the precinct shouldn’t be airing her dirty detective’s laundry.”

“Yuri’s gonna love this,” Peter mutters.

MJ blinks. “Yuri—?” Maybe she’s not as awake as she thought, because she’s not following that train of thought at all.

“She sent footage of you and Anderson to the precinct anonymously,” Peter says, emerging from the kitchen with another set of white pills. He hands them to her, but this time, she doesn’t swallow them immediately.

“That’s a surprise. I thought Yuri didn’t approve of cops anymore.”

Peter shrugs. “She had a bit of a nudge from me and Miles. And—she said you reminded her of why she started as a cop in the first place. I don’t think any of us can argue having more eyes on the situation.”

MJ glances again at the living room window, securely locked and covered since last night. The sunshine peeks around the edges of the drapes, but it’s barely enough to light the room.

Still, the darkness feels kind of safe. Like the two of them are wrapped in this tiny cocoon while a war rages just beyond the glass. Anderson’s prowling out there somewhere, but here, in this moment, they’re still. Silent.

“Well, hopefully Yuri won’t have to meet her replacement,” MJ finally says.

Peter rubs his forehead. “Considering she’s already on her way over here for the first shift, I think that’s wishful thinking.” Peter hangs his head. “My luck’s going strong as ever.”

“Wait. What first shift?”

“You didn’t think I was going to leave you alone in here, did you?” Peter raises an eyebrow all the way to his hairline. When she frowns, he forces a smile, offers a joking tone. “Come on, MJ. It’s me. Peter Parker: worrywart.”

MJ’s stiff and aching and hungry and nauseated all at the same time. Her skin is damp with sweat, and under the cast, her arm feels itchy and gross. She hasn’t done makeup in days, and her dirty hair is hanging in a limp, loose ponytail.

Long story short, she is _not_ prepared for visitors.

“You have got to be kidding me. Pete, tell me you’re kidding.”

“Hang on. You’d _rather_ stay here alone, even though Anderson knows exactly where you are?” Peter exclaims.

MJ presses her palms into her eye. Her cast bumps against her nose, a pointed reminder of the damage Anderson can do. She lowers her arms, clenching her jaw. “Yes. _No_. I just—did it have to be Yuri?”

“Well, Miles is covering the second shift, but he has homework due tomorrow—”

“Oh my god. _Peter_.”

“What?” Now he looks mildly confused. “Look, MJ, he came into our _home_. He’s scaring you, and he’s killing other women in the meantime. I’ve got to find him, but I also—I can’t leave you alone. I just can’t.”

MJ sees his point. She really does. But still: “So this is our plan, then? You assign me 24 hour babysitters, while one of you combs the city at a time looking for a guy who’s utterly vanished? How long can we keep this up, Pete? A day? A week?”

He winds his hands into his hair. “I don’t know; as long as necessary! Leaving you here alone is off the table in your condition.”

“Okay,” MJ puts the white pills on the chest-like coffee table, pushing to her feet. She sways a bit, but she’s not as unsteady as she was when she awoke. As far as she’s concerned, now’s a great time to wean off the meds. Team Spider needs her in tip-top shape. “Move me back to Yuri’s place, then.”

He groans in frustration. “I thought of that. But Anderson probably has eyes on this place; he’ll know if you leave, and that warehouse is even less defendable than this apartment. At least here, there’s only three access points.”

“Then get me a hotel. One point of access.”

“So he can track your credit cards and steal a key card? Nuh uh.”

God, he puts the _P_ in Panic, sometimes. She’s not arguing that safety measures are necessary, or that he’s overreacting, but—he gets so caught up in _keep MJ safe_ that he forgets other people have lives too. Yuri and Miles shouldn’t have to spend all their free time protecting MJ.

So she crosses her arms, cast and all, and changes tactics. “Peter, how long do you think we can keep this up? I have to leave the apartment sometime.”

“Not until he’s caught,” Peter says, stubbornly.

MJ raises an eyebrow. “Then we’re just ignoring the first baby check-up? No blood work, no ultrasound, no weird stirrups. That sounds safe, considering my recent trauma.”

Peter’s whole body sags, and guilt prickles. That might have been a low blow, but he’s being unreasonable. “Sorry, Pete,” she takes his hand, squeezes, smiles. “I love you, and I’m not trying to be difficult. But we’re smart people. Let’s stop thinking about protecting me and do what we’re good at: working the case.”  

He swallows. “I’m just… a little terrified. And kind of furious?” His voice is tense now. "It's a weird mix."

She lowers her gaze to their entwined hands. “I get it. I'm scared too,” she admits, quietly. “But squirreling me away doesn’t guarantee I’ll be safe.” And yet, the moment Anderson dragged her into the basement flashes back into her mind, the words she swore under pressure. _I’ll never tell Peter he’s overreacting ever again._

She sighs, leaning into him. “Look. I’ll play this game for a few days. But let’s be smart about how we track Anderson. Instead of just patrolling the streets and hoping to find him, or waiting for him to come back here, let’s do some investigating.”

“What did you have in mind?” Peter asks.

She gestures towards her laptop, perched with a dark screen on the nearby desk. “Let’s start with the purses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who forgot about the purses? AH YES I DO HAVE A PLAN. 
> 
> ... Kind of. 
> 
> I think it was optimistic of me to think this would be finished by the end of March, but we ARE winding down soon. Like, two more chapters, and then the final battle. Stick around!
> 
> (Also YouTube is super fun and I'm loving it. Also also I'm moving in 9 days, so we'll have to see how updates go around that time...)


	11. The Defensive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri and Miles take turns keeping an eye on MJ. But it's not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: mention of murder, mutilation, and creepy stalking.

The handoff is seamless. Yuri arrives with a special knock on the front door, and she and Peter speak quietly for a few minutes before he slips around her, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. If Anderson knows about his window entrance, it’s safer for Peter to find an alley to change.

Yuri’s about to close the door when Peter slips his head back inside and calls, “Love you, MJ. Call me if anything changes.” He pauses, then emphasizes, “ _Anything_.”

“Sure thing, Tiger.” MJ rolls her eyes.

He quirks a smile, but she’d have to be blind to miss the tense lines around his eyes. He ducks out again, and Yuri locks the door behind him. Then she produces a tiny wedge and slips it underneath the doorframe.

MJ raises an eyebrow. “Extra precautions?”

“No need to be stupid,” Yuri replies, curtly. She checks the security of the lock and unsheathes her gun. “Have you been in the bedroom lately?”

“I was sleeping in there thirty minutes ago, but—”

“Then, no.” Yuri steps past her, moving with the cool efficiency of her time on the force. She sweeps the room, checks under the bed, scans the bathroom, and makes sure the fire escape window is still latched and secured. MJ hovers in the doorway, watching her work.

She wants to say it’s overkill, but… honestly, it’s kind of reassuring, having a cop she can trust in the apartment. In that moment, Yuri seems larger than life, and that’s exactly what MJ needs.

MJ settles at her desk in the living room, even as Yuri comes back out, digs into her backpack for two thin, black rods. She moves for the bedroom again, but MJ waves to catch her attention.

“What are those?”

Yuri glances down at them, jaw set. “Alarms. One goes on the window, one on the sill, and if they separate by more than a few inches, I get an alert.”

“Smart.” MJ whistles.

“It’s a novice mistake, expecting we’ll hear if he tries to break in. Skilled intruders are silent, so we have to be smarter.”

She vanishes into the bedroom again, and MJ opens her text message conversation with Peter on her laptop. She glances over her shoulder, making sure she’s alone, before typing, “ _Man. Yuri’s intense about security.”_

His response is instantaneous, and lacking punctuation. Probably the voice-to-text option he installed in his mask. “ _i know isn’t it great”_

MJ snorts and exits out of the conversation, just as Yuri steps back into the living room. Swiftly, she attaches two more black rods to the window here, then pulls the drapes again. Only then does she stow her backpack and settle against the wall, arms crossed, staring at MJ.

It’s awkward.

“You can sit down,” MJ says, spinning in her desk chair to gesture towards the couch.

Yuri doesn’t move.

MJ sighs, closing her laptop. “Sorry Pete called you here. He’s… paranoid.” Even saying it, she knows it’s not true; “paranoid” would be expecting Anderson to arrive if he hadn’t been here once before. But he already proved what he’s capable of, and it’s terrifying.

Yuri shrugs. “He’s protective. I understand that.”

“Too protective, sometimes.”

“No such thing.” Yuri glances at her phone, then pushes off the wall. “There’s not much point in protecting the city if you can’t save the people you care about.”

Suddenly, this doesn’t seem like a conversation about Peter. MJ’s brows furrow, and she chooses her next words carefully. “I mean, maybe. But you can’t save everyone. No matter how hard you try, someone will always be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then you weren’t trying hard enough,” Yuri says, sharply.

Oh, wow. MJ frowns, falling silent. That’s a toxic mentality, and one she doesn’t really want anywhere near Peter. He already cries himself to sleep sometimes, thinking about what he could have done differently to save anyone caught in his villains’ warpaths. Slung faster, webbed them to safety, dodged quicker, contained the fight…

The guilt alone would kill him, if he operated on Yuri’s beliefs.

Maybe that’s why Yuri went so dark, so fast.

MJ swallows. Her arm is starting to hurt again, but she refuses to take more meds. Instead, she uses the pain to sharpen the haze that settled in her brain last night. “Yuri, you were a great cop.”

“Maybe once,” Yuri replies, striding to the window. She studies the building across the street through a crack in the drapes, pointedly ignoring this conversation.

MJ takes one last shot. “I don’t think your old squad blamed you for what happened during the Maggia showdown.”

"Stop,” Yuri snaps, spinning on her heel to face MJ once more. Her dark eyes flash, and her calm demeanor has vanished beneath a surge of fury. “Don’t you _dare_ say another word. Not about them. Not about me.”

MJ’s heart thrums in her chest. Yuri won’t hurt her, she knows, but—but this is new. A Yuri who's not calm, not collected, but passionate and fiery and impulsive. It’s the personality she’d expect from Yuri the murdering vigilante, not Yuri the ex-cop.

Then again, maybe they’re one and the same.

MJ clears her throat, but before she can attempt damage control, a hard knock echoes on the front door.

Both of them stiffen.

“Are you expecting visitors?” Yuri hisses, striding to the door. She has her gun out again, aimed at the floor with careful precision, but she’s not taking any chances. Before MJ can respond, she peeks through the peephole and curses softly. “Captain Holmes. Wonderful.”

“I wasn’t actually expecting her to show up,” MJ replies, her face burning. Here Yuri was trying to do her a favor, and now Yuri’s replacement is standing on her welcome mat. Turns out, MJ can now answer the question of Yuri’s current relationship with the PDNY with resounding clarity: it’s nonexistent.

More accurately, it’s hostile.

Yuri shoves her gun into her holster and steps immediately for the bedroom. “Answer the door, but _don’t_ let her know I’m here. If anything goes south, shout.”

“You think Holmes might—” but before MJ can finish the question, Yuri slams her bedroom door shut.

 _Lovely_ , MJ thinks, removing the wedge to unlock the door. She opens it just as far as the chain, peeking through. Sure enough, the stern captain she met at Anderson’s desk is standing on the other side, her no-nonsense expression colder than ice.

Between Holmes and Yuri, they’re holding some kind of record with that.

“Captain,” MJ says, steadily. “What a surprise.”

“You said you’d speak to me, so here I am.” Holmes crosses her arms. “May I come inside?”

She almost says no. Almost scowls and shouts and slams the door, because this was Anderson’s direct supervisor, the one person who should have kept track of him. If anyone noticed he was acting strange, Holmes should have.

But—the reporter in her can’t turn down a lead, even if she’s not writing this story anymore. Besides, she _did_ say she’d talk to the captain. She presses her lips into a firm line. “You’re alone?”

Holmes gestures to the empty space behind her.

MJ clenches her eyes shut, thinks of Yuri listening from the bedroom, and unhooks the chain. Holmes steps inside, but just far enough for MJ to close the door behind her. She clearly doesn’t want to overstep boundaries by strolling into the living room.

MJ stands near the kitchen counter, running her fingers over her cast.

Holmes gets right to the point. “You told Martinez there was a break-in. That someone left a note?”

“Anderson left a note,” MJ says, plucking it off the kitchen counter. It’s crumpled from Peter’s fist, but the words are easy to read. The captain slips on a glove and examines it for a moment before fishing out an evidence bag.

“Is there any way to prove Anderson wrote it?”

“Other than the fact that he’s stalking me?” MJ can’t resist drawling. “Not unless he files police reports in cursive. I think he did it to keep us from matching the handwriting to the notes on the other victims.”

“Well, we have his signature, but handwriting comparisons are notoriously difficult to present as evidence,” Holmes replies, tucking the evidence bag into her jacket pocket. “Where was the note found?”

MJ moves through the timeline of events, from getting home at nearly 2am, to finding the note, to talking with Martinez this morning. Holmes makes a few notes in her phone, then tucks the cell into her pocket.

“And where were you before two this morning?”

MJ stiffens. “At the hospital.”

Holmes levels a careful gaze her way. “Ms. Watson. I’m not accusing you of anything, but I need the truth if we’re going to help you. Martinez was there when you checked yourself out of the hospital, in case you’ve forgotten. That leaves almost 18 hours unaccounted for.”

God, she kind of hates cops sometimes. Then she immediately feels guilty about that thought. They do good work, and it’s work _she_ certainly wouldn’t want to do.

But the _prying_.

Ironic, considering MJ’s line of work. It’s not fun being on the other end.

“I—I can’t tell you,” she says, slowly.

“Is there a reason?”

“Not one that pertains to your investigation.”

Anderson may know about her connection with Spider-Man, but she won’t widen that intimate circle. They’ve gone almost a decade without spilling Spider-Man's secret, and she won’t be the reason Peter’s whole life is upturned.

So she stares Holmes down, silently, until the police captain sighs and makes another note in her cell phone. “Okay. Well, based on the evidence we found in that bank vault, we have reasonable cause to believe Detective Anderson is the Chinatown Killer. We’re approaching this with the utmost caution, as we have no intent of alarming the public. I spoke to your editor at the Daily Bugle, and he said you removed yourself from the story. Is that true?”

“Yes.” MJ’s face goes hot. “You—you didn’t tell him about what happened in the vault, did you?”

Holmes’s expression remains steady. “It didn’t pertain to the investigation.”

MJ breathes a sigh, trying not to look as relieved as she feels. Her respect for Holmes climbs just a bit. “Thank you.”

Holmes nods curtly. “With your permission, we’ll need to take fingerprints of your windowsill, the dresser, anywhere Anderson might have touched. Otherwise, we can’t confirm he was the author of this note.”

Well, there goes that respect. “He _is_ the author,” MJ grinds out. “I don’t have a dozen stalkers waiting to ruin my life, Captain. He’s the only one who’s obsessed with me, since I’m the only one who escaped.”

“Be that as it may, we need to amass as much evidence as possible if we’re going to get a conviction. That starts with confirming his whereabouts last night.”

MJ groans in frustration. If cops arrive, it won’t just be Anderson’s fingerprints they find. It’ll be Peter’s, and Miles’s, maybe in positions on the wall that no normal human can reach. Plus, Yuri clearly can’t be around the police. It’s all too much risk.

MJ carefully keeps her gaze from the closed bedroom door, from Yuri’s hiding spot. “We can do this all day, but I don’t need more cops around me right now. No offense, but my trust in the PDNY has dropped since you employed a serial killer.”

Holmes’s lips downturn. “Alleged serial killer.”

 _Aaand_ she’s done.

“I appreciate you keeping me informed, but it’s time you leave.” MJ points at the door.

“Ms. Watson, I want to emphasize that if you won’t cooperate with this investigation, we can’t protect you. The fastest way to get Anderson off the streets is open communication and sharing information.”

“I’ve told you everything you need to know. And now I’m asking you to leave.”

A beat passes between them, where MJ glares defiantly and Holmes waits for her to break. But when MJ doesn’t offer any more information, Holmes sighs. “So you’ve refused police protection, and won’t allow us to check for Anderson’s fingerprints. This is your safety, Ms. Watson. You’re taking your life into your own hands.”

“My life is always in my hands,” MJ replies. “But I appreciate the concern.”

Holmes hands her a business card and turns for the door. “If Anderson gets in touch with you, call us.” Her words are tense, with an underlying current of anger. MJ gets it; in the captain’s mind, she’s delaying the capture of a dangerous killer.

In MJ’s mind, the cops just can’t do what Team Spider can.

(God, Peter would be giddy to know she’s using that now. Which means he can never, ever know.)

“Okay,” MJ says noncommittally. Holmes leaves without another word.

Once the door is closed and locked, Yuri steps out of the bedroom, an amused smile quirking her lips. “You are _not_ making this easy on her.”

MJ shrugs. “Somehow, I feel like you wouldn't have let a creep like Anderson operate under your nose. Call me biased.”

“Hard to know,” Yuri says. “You know her next step is getting a warrant to check this place anyway.”

“Well, hopefully I’ll have found something more substantial by then.” MJ steps back to the laptop, sinks into the chair. “Make yourself at home. I’ve got some research to do.”

 

* * *

 

 

The hours pass quickly after that. Peter swings by—not literally, for once—to check on her around 5pm, right before the shift change between Yuri and Miles. When the kid arrives, MJ’s surprised to see that he and Yuri formed an amicable relationship while Peter was shot. A few jokes later, and Yuri’s actually laughing when she shoulders her backpack and strolls out the door.

In the resulting silence, Miles rocks onto his heels, hands in his pockets. It's Sunday, so he's in dark pants and a hoodie, with a leather knapsack slung over one shoulder. “So, trapped in your own house. This must be fun.”

MJ snorts. “The best.”

Miles quirks a grin and tosses the knapsack onto the coffee table before sinking into the couch. “You have any leads yet? Peter said you were investigating the purses.”

“Kind of,” MJ replies, leaning back so he can see the computer screen. It jostles her broken arm, which flares with pain. That’s been getting worse the last few hours, as her meds wear off and her mind clears. It leaves her feeling sick, but frankly, there’s no time for that.

“You okay?” Miles asks, cautiously.

She smooths her pained expression, forces a casual tone. “Just dandy. So Anderson made a mistake, letting me see those purses. I got pictures of the serial numbers, and tracked them to a bulk shipment ordered by luxury spa up north. Thing is, the spa is crazy expensive, and I don’t think any of the victims could have afforded it.”

“Wasn’t one of them a dog walker?”

“And another was a law student. They weren’t swimming in cash, from what I can tell.”

Miles leans closer, squinting at the laptop screen, which is open to the physical location of the spa, maybe a two hour drive north of the city. “Huh. So… how does that relate to Anderson?”

A thrill sweeps through MJ, the same adrenaline rush she gets when she’s digging her teeth into a juicy story. Excitement filters into her tone for the first time in ages. “What if the purses didn’t belong to those women? Pete interviewed three of their roommates, and two didn’t remember the victims owning Louis Vuitton bags. And the later victims were found without wallets, which implies to me that Anderson took _their_ purses, then left the empty ones as a red herring.”

“Weird.” Miles raises an eyebrow. “How’d he get the purses? Did he buy them?”

“Still working on that—” MJ breaks off when Miles’s phone rings. He hesitates, but she waves a hand. “Go ahead. We’re not in jail, even if it feels like it.”

Miles quirks a grin and glances at the screen.

And then his face pales. “Oh my god. It’s—it’s Gwen. MJ, it’s Gwen! What do I do?”

MJ stifles a laugh. “Answer it?” 

“I can’t answer it,” Miles hisses, as if Gwen’s already listening. “She turned me down! She’s dating that jock, and she doesn’t like me. What if she’s just calling to—to rub it in my face or something?”

“I mean, based on her bio in _Science Today_ , she doesn’t seem like that kind of person.”

“You read her bio?” Miles looks like he might faint. The phone is still ringing.

“I’m an _investigative reporter_ , Morales. You’d better answer that call.”

“I can’t—” he tosses the phone on the couch.

MJ scoops it up and answers with a swift swipe, catching the very last ring. The room goes silent, and she turns it on speakerphone, then tosses it to Miles. “Say something,” she mouths.

The look he shoots her is nothing short of horrified. MJ winks. He swallows a groan and croaks out, “Hello?”

“Oh. H-Hey, Miles,” a female voice replies. She sounds cute, with a lower voice than MJ expected based on her cheery appearance in the magazine article. “Sorry. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You’re not—” his voice breaks, and he clears his throat, forcing a deeper tone. “You’re not interrupting.”

MJ rolls her eyes.

He offers her a dirty look and pushes off the couch, stomping towards her bedroom. But he clearly doesn’t want to leave her alone, because he hovers awkwardly in the doorway, keeping one eye on the living room window.

Gwen hesitates. “I just called because… Um…” she trails off, mutters something under her breath. “Never mind. It’s stupid. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, no! Gwen, it’s not stupid,” Miles exclaims, panicked. Back to his normal voice, MJ notes in amusement. “Don’t hang up. What’s wrong?”

Should she be listening to this? Probably not, but it’s like watching a teenage soap opera. MJ throws caution to the wind and props her cast on her desk, pushing back her laptop. No way she can miss this drama.

Especially once Gwen says, in a quiet voice, “I broke up with Tad.”

 _Tad_? Even his name sounds douchy. MJ wrinkles her nose and thinks, _probably a wise move, girl._

“O-Oh?” Miles squeaks.

Smooth. MJ shoots him a thumbs-up, which he clearly chooses to ignore.

“Yeah.” There’s an awkward pause where neither of them seem to know what to say. Then Gwen draws a shaking breath. “Are you free to talk? Like, maybe in a few hours?”

Miles’s entire body is rigid. “Yeah! Yeah, sure! What time—” then he cuts himself off, clenches his eyes shut, glances at MJ. “Oh, wait. Tonight doesn’t work for me, Gwen. I’m busy.”

MJ groans, burying her face in her arms. Her cast scrapes against her forehead, and in this moment, she’s never hated it more. “Miles,” she hisses. “Mute the phone.”

“H-Hang on,” he stammers, and mutes it.

“What are you _doing_?” 

“Um, protecting you? Peter said—”

“Screw Peter! This is the love of your life.”

“I mean, that’s going a bit far.” Miles’s cheeks darken into a blush. “And isn’t Peter the love of _your_ life? Harsh.”

MJ closes her laptop. “Blame the hormones. Look, she’s obviously vulnerable right now, and wants a friend. And based on what you told me, I’d say there’s an 80% chance she broke up with Tad because she’s falling for _you_. If you bail on her tonight, she’s going to spend the next twenty-four hours thinking she made a mistake.”

“80%? How are you getting that statistic?”

MJ huffs. “Come on, Miles. Everyone knows 64% of all statistics are made up on the spot.”

He squints at her. “Peter says it's 92%."

“Yeah, that's the joke. Get back to the point—you need to meet with her.”

“I can’t leave you alone. I won’t,” Miles crosses his arms, jaw jutting out stubbornly. “Peter entrusted me to protect you. I’m not messing this up.”

She _hates_ that someone has to “protect” her. It’s valid, but still makes her feel squeamish. MJ narrows her eyes. “Unmute her and tell her you’ll meet for coffee tonight. Yuri can hunt for Anderson, and I’ll make Peter bring me dinner. Then everyone’s happy.”

Miles hesitates, and MJ motions at the phone again. “If you don’t say something, she’s going to think you hate her.”

Miles unmutes the phone faster than MJ can blink. “Gwen? Hey. I just, uh, cleared my schedule. Where do you wanna meet?”

“Oh, you didn't have to... I don’t want to ruin your night.”

“You’re _making_ my night,” Miles says, then seems to realize how that sounded and stammers, “Ah, I just mean that I… love coffee! And the fact that you’ll be there is also cool. It’s cool. ‘S all cool.”

MJ shoulders tremble with laughter. God, he’s so much like Peter, it’s almost comical. 

Miles’s face darkens all the way to his ears, and he hunches over the phone, finally taking it off speaker. His voice drops to a hushed whisper, and with an exasperated look at MJ, he steps into the bedroom to coordinate privately.

MJ takes advantage of the resulting quiet, pressing her own phone to her ear. Peter answers on the second ring, panting. “MJ? Is everything okay? Miles is still there, right?”

“Yeah, it’s all fine, Pete. We’re good.” She was going to ask about dinner, but now suspicion prickles her arms. “Why are you out of breath? Did you find Anderson?”

“No—” he cuts off, then comes back a few seconds later. “No, not yet. But the cops just found another body. Anderson's nowhere to be seen, but... he’s getting closer to our building.”

Fear races up MJ’s spine.

Miles steps out of the room, his phone in hand, brows knitted together. “That was terrible, man. I can’t believe you—”

MJ holds up a hand, silencing him immediately. She puts Peter on speaker so Miles can hear too, then dares to ask, “Who was killed?”

Miles goes rigid.

“Another redhead, just a block over. He... well, he carved out a message on her chest. For you.” Peter sounds as sick as MJ feels, hearing that. Imagining some poor woman killed and defaced just so some psychopath could remind MJ he's watching. MJ covers her mouth, gripping the phone tight enough it creaks a bit. Peter swallows and adds, “I think we need to get you out of town. Let’s go up north or something. Take a romantic vacation until this blows over.”

In that moment, she kind of wants to. But Anderson's out there _killing_ people. And who knows how many more women he'll murder to regain MJ's attention? 

“Pete, I don't run from problems.”

“This problem could _kill you_.”

“Every single one of _your_ problems could kill you, but you always stay and fight.” MJ glances at Miles, then forces out the words: “What did the message say?”

Silence.

“ _Pete_.”

He draws a ragged breath. “It said, ’ _See you soon_.’”

For a moment, it’s like they’re frozen in time. MJ doesn’t breathe. Miles doesn’t move. They just stare at each other in horror until Peter says, “Look, I’m—I’m coming back. Okay? We need to regroup, figure out something better than this. There has to be something _better_ than this.”

MJ clenches her eyes shut. “Bring dinner. Miles has to leave for a bit.” But now the words sound hollow.

Miles flinches. “I can stay—”

“That’s fine,” Peter interrupts. “I think you and I need to talk anyway. Alone.”

“Uh oh, Tiger, you’re making me nervous.”

“Imagine how I feel.” Peter sounds tense and strained, all of his trademark humor utterly gone. Somehow, that makes MJ colder than anything. Anderson's a villain, but villains come and go. It's the impact they leave on a person's mind that truly marks a crime. And the longer they court Anderson, the further she and Peter get from brushing this encounter off and reassembling the lives they knew. 

"See you soon," Peter says, quietly. 

"Bye," MJ whispers back. After he hangs up, she realizes that she didn't even say  _I love you_. And she probably should have. 

Miles stares blankly at the wall, jaw slack. “I don’t think I should meet Gwen tonight.”

It jars MJ out of her reverie, and she forces a smile. He's just a kid, after all, and there's no reason he shouldn't spend his Sunday night flirting with his high school crush. “Anderson isn’t your problem, Miles. Besides, I want to hear _all_ about it when you’re done; your life is like daytime television to me.”

“Glad someone’s enjoying—”

That's when someone knocks on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE CHAPTERS LEFT! I plotted them out and everything. Look at me go. :P 
> 
> Aww. Widdle Miles and Gwen. I already ship them. In my mind, they're just transplanted from Spider-Verse, and I'm into it. :3 
> 
> You guys rock!! Let's see how fast I can post these new chapters. XD Still halfway hoping to wrap this up by the end of March............ I miss my whumpy oneshots. >.>


	12. The Holdup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ gets a gift, and Peter crafts a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: More stalkery behavior. Just... expect it.

This time, they don’t freeze.

Miles is at the front door with superhuman speed, tugging his dark mask out of his leather knapsack. He yanks it over his head, then strips his jacket to reveal the rest of his suit underneath. Of course he came prepared. Street-clothes... until an emergency.

Then Spider-Man comes out.

“Get down,” Miles whispers, motioning for MJ to hide.

It goes against every instinct she has, but—again, it’s not just _her_ problem. Now there’s a baby involved, and it’s been through enough trauma. She mutters a curse and ducks behind the couch, out of view of the front door.

Miles peers through the peephole.

“It’s flowers.”

“Flowers?” MJ repeats.

“Yeah. Just some flower delivery guy. Definitely not Anderson.” They wait for several, tense moments. Then Miles says, “Okay, he left the vase on the welcome mat. Maybe if we ignore them, Anderson will think you’re not home.”

“He knows I’m home,” MJ replies, pushing to her feet. Her bones ache, and her arm flares in pain. She winces. “We have to bring them in. What if he planted a bomb or something? If we’re dealing with anything that could endanger my neighbors, I need to know.”

“Or we call the police and let them handle it.” Miles crosses his arms. In the black suit, he looks pretty official, white eye-lenses narrowed. For a moment, MJ imagines a future where Peter is just a stay-at-home dad, where this kid is handling the safety of New York.

It’s a nice image.

But he’s not there yet, and this is MJ’s problem. She pushes him aside, grips the doorknob. “The delivery guy left. What could flowers do that Anderson hasn’t already?”

“You _just_ mentioned a bomb!”

“Worst-case scenario. And if that’s what we’re dealing with, I would like to know sooner than later.” She pats his shoulder and unhooks the chain. The door creaks when she opens it, and she scans the hallway before looking at the flowers.

They’re quite lovely, two dozen bright red roses in a massive vase, but they make MJ’s stomach churn. The card is visible on the top, and she plucks it off, squinting at the typed font.

_Too dark for your hair, too light for your blood. See you soon, Mary Jane._

“He’s such a poet,” she drawls. The sarcasm is a defense mechanism, a front for Miles while her insides curdle. He’s just a kid. This is _way_ too intense for him.

It’s too intense for her, too.

Miles reads it over her shoulder and starts shaking in anger. “If I get my hands on this guy, I’ll—”

“You’re going to see Gwen,” MJ plucks the vase off the welcome mat, carries it inside as Miles locks the door and follows her into the kitchen.

"Maybe," he mutters, darkly. 

She ignores him, systematically plucking every single rose out of the vase, checking them for bugs or bombs or whatever else Anderson was trying to hide. But there’s nothing. They’re just flowers.

Which means he’s taunting her.

Sad thing is, it’s working.

They don’t talk again until keys jingle against the front door’s lock, and Peter opens the door. It catches on the chain, and he freezes, backtracks until Miles unlocks it. MJ stays on the couch, twirling the card between her fingers, forcing herself to read Anderson’s words again and again.

 _Lighter than blood_. Ominous guy.

Peter checks the front door, then the windows, then steps back into the living room. “Thanks for staying with her, Miles. I appreciate it.”

“Man, this is getting ridiculous!” Miles’s calm demeanor vanishes now that Peter’s here. “Did you see the flowers?”

“Flowers?”

"They're in the trash." MJ flicks the card at Peter, who catches it with one hand.

He reads it, and his jaw clenches so hard she can see the veins in his temples. “Jesus. He just delivered these?”

“Some flower guy did. I just found the company, and I’m about to call and see if they have a credit card on file, but I doubt he’d be that sloppy.” MJ holds up her phone so Peter can see the flower company’s website loaded on the screen.

“He’s too smart for that.” Peter massages his temples. “Look, MJ, we need to talk.”

She knows where he’s going with this. “We need to leave, you mean.”

Peter breathes a sigh of relief. “ _Yes_. Thank god you agree—”

“No.”

The guys stare at her.

She stares back, stubbornly. Fleeing isn’t in her DNA. Anderson is trying to scare her, and that infuriates her more than anything. Mary Jane Watson doesn’t _run_ from a problem, especially if other lives are on the line.

Of anyone, Peter should understand that. So she crosses her arms and stares him down, until she notices Miles shifting awkwardly by the door.

“Miles, you can go,” MJ says, finally.

He hesitates. “I’d rather stay—”

“We’re fine here,” Peter grinds out, forcing a smile. “Thanks again for coming. I’ll call you later tonight.”

Miles rubs his arm, but reluctantly shoulders his knapsack and slips out the front door. Only once it’s closed does Peter’s smile drop, rearranging into an irritated expression. “Listen. He’s getting closer. There’s going to be a confrontation. But if we can remove you from the equation—”

“I’m not leaving. I can’t believe you’d even suggest it. When have you ever run from something like this?”

“I’ve never _faced_ something like this,” Peter grinds out. He’s pulled tight as Hawkeye’s bowstring, trembling with… what? Fury? Or fear? It's hard to tell. “And neither have you, Mary Jane. This isn’t just removing yourself from the scene of a fight. This fight is going to _follow_ you.”

“So what makes you think heading upstate will fix that?” MJ demands.

Peter tugs at his hair. “I don’t know, okay? I’m trying to do the best with the data I have! Maybe we don’t go upstate. Maybe we get on an airplane and take a European vacation. Or—or visit China. I hear Australia’s nice this time of year. Pick somewhere!”

“I pick here, Peter. Best case scenario, he follows us abroad, and then we’ve lost the home front advantage. Worst case, he stays, and more people die. How are you okay with that?”

“I’m not, okay? It sucks. It all sucks. But he’s going to find you, unless we get you _out_ of New York.”

“Great. And then he’ll keep killing women—”

“But at least that woman won’t be _you_ ,” Peter snarls.

The room falls into shocking silence. MJ stares at him, speechless. He doesn’t take that tone with her. Not in all the years, all the arguments, has Peter Parker ever raised his voice like that. He might as well have slapped her in the face, for all she was prepared for it.

He takes a physical step back, blinking hard. “I’m—I’m sorry. I just… Jesus, MJ, I’m scared shitless. For you, for the baby… I don’t know what else to do. Anderson’s always one step ahead of us, and unless we can find something to turn the tables, he’s going to attack again. And I know you hate it when I get worried like this, but I can’t—” His voice hitches, and he clenches his eyes shut. “I can’t _lose_ you.”

MJ glances at the vase, sitting beside the trash can. The type-set card crumpled in Peter’s fist. The flower delivery number on her phone. The luxury spa upstate, open on her nearby laptop.

She crosses the distance between them, squeezing his hand. His eyes are bright, watery, and he looks like he’s one light breeze from collapsing. His suit is stiff with sweat, and the dark bags under his eyes can’t be ignored.

This weekend has been taxing on all of them.

She leans against his chest, and he winds his arms around her, holding her almost too tight. He’s being careful—with his strength, he’s always careful—but his solid frame trembles with every shaking breath.

“I love you,” she says. “But you know we can’t run.”

He doesn’t respond, burying his nose in her hair.

She presses a hand to his heart, feeling the too-fast _thump-thump_ , _thump-thump_. Still, it’s beating, which is everything she prayed for when he was under Yuri’s knife. She knows how he feels, because the thought of living without him is terrifying. But that doesn’t mean she stops him from donning the suit every day.

It doesn’t mean she pulls him out of New York when the going gets tough.

“We have a few leads,” she says, quietly, carefully. “Let me follow them and see what I can find. And if… if they don’t pan out, then we can talk about this again. Okay? With the PDNY, Yuri, and you on the case, there’s no way Anderson will see the end of this week.”

“I can’t— _we_ can’t count on that,” Peter says, darkly. His arms tighten around her shoulders.

She draws a shallow breath, but doesn’t tell him to loosen his grip. He needs this. And if she’s being honest, she does too. “One day, Pete. That’s all I need. Just one more day to make some calls.”

Peter shudders.

She waits.

Finally, he releases her, holding her gaze. “One day. Then we get on a plane.”

“I hear Costa Rica’s lovely,” MJ jokes.

“Great. We’ll go there.”

Oh. So, not a joke, then. MJ inhales, centers herself, and nods. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter brought dinner, but after their talk, it’s definitely cold. He heats it up in the microwave while MJ hunches over her laptop, making phone calls. She starts with the flower shop, since it’s the most solid lead they have, but Anderson entered the shop and physically paid in cash. When she asks for the security tapes, they laugh and hang up the phone.

With no other options for that lead, she calls Captain Holmes and passes on the information. Holmes isn’t happy, but she promises to look into it.

The only thing left to do is finish investigating the purses. MJ calls the spa and asks for a manager while Peter places a steaming plate of pho in front of her. She flashes him a smile, and he drops onto the couch to eat.

The manager who answers is cheery and bright. “Hello! This is Veronica. How may I be of service?”

Wow, this place must be fancy. Of course, for what they charge for massages, MJ would expect nothing less. She slips into her reporter voice just as easily, acting confident and interested. “Hello, Veronica. My name is Mary Jane Watson, and I’m a reporter with the Daily Bugle. We’re doing an entertainment piece on the best luxury retreats in New York, and your spa topped the list. I’m wondering if you’re available for a few questions?”

“Oh, of course! That sounds delightful,” Veronica gushes. “Hang on one moment. Let me slip into my office.” There’s a pause where she says something to whoever’s manning the front desk, then a door closing. “Okay, how may I help? We’re be flattered to be promoted in the Daily Bugle.”

“Well, one of the things that sets you apart from your competitors is the quality of items for purchase. Your spa packages boast incredible service, and your facilities are top-notch, but I’m wondering what you offer in your gift shop to complete the experience?”

On the couch, Peter swallows a snort. He’s seen her do the reporting thing for years, but he always gets a kick out of her falsely bubbly attitude, her feigned interest in whatever topic she’s reviewing.

 _This_ is why she got out of the puff pieces. She waves him off, but it’s still a little embarrassing.

Veronica doesn’t seem fazed. “Oh, we stock only the highest luxury items. Our bath bombs are imported from Greece, and our lotions were crafted with care in Paris. We buy in bulk to offer a discount to all of our customers, so they’re getting the best price for the highest quality.”

“Interesting!” MJ pauses, as if she’s writing that down, then asks, “I read that at one point, you were offering exclusive, vintage Louis Vuitton purses. Is that true?”

Now Veronica sighs. “Yes, it’s true. We caught wind of a shipment of saddlebags crafted in 1978 going up for sale, and we placed a rather steep bid on it. But they were only offered in our store for a few weeks before someone stole our entire supply.”

MJ perks up, putting Veronica on speaker. On the couch, Peter’s almost done scarfing his food, but he straightens when she motions at the cell.

“They were stolen? That’s awful. I hope you filed a police report.”

“We absolutely did. It hasn’t affected our level of care; we replaced the purses with a fantastic selection of bathrobes that our customers adore.”

God, MJ hates puff pieces. She grinds her teeth and forces a cheery smile, trying to redirect. “Oh, good. I can’t imagine how scary that was! Did they break in during business hours?”

“No, none of us were here, thank gosh. But a detective from New York City was already staying with us, following a lead for another case, so we just filed the report with him and it was all handled.”

Peter’s jaw drops.

MJ smirks. “Wow! That’s so lucky. Who was the detective?”

“This isn’t going in the article, is it? Because the case he was working on had nothing to do with our spa. Our customers can expect the utmost care and safety when they visit.”

Her pho is going cold, but she can't lose this lead. She switches tactics as easily as breathing. “Oh, of course not! Between you and me, I’m just so fascinated with crime shows. This sounds like my favorite episode of Law and Justice! Derrick Holter is _so_ hot, isn’t he?”

On the couch, Peter’s shoulders are trembling, but this time he’s choking on laughter. MJ throws a pillow at him, but he’s too distracted to catch it. It smacks his head, and he doubles over.

A grin spreads across her face too; they haven’t had much to laugh at the last few days, so she’ll take what she can get.

And of course, Veronica takes the bait. “Omigod, I _know_. Like, it’s my dream that he visits us someday. But so far, we’ve just had the normal A-list celebrities. You can put that in your article, too.”

“Will do,” MJ chokes.

Veronica sounds contemplative, now. “I think the detective was named Anders, or something. He left pretty soon after we filed that report. Sorry I don’t have more juicy details for you.”

“This is great, thanks,” MJ says. She asks a few more questions to avert suspicion, and by the time she and Veronica part ways, she knows _far_ too much about spa treatments and frou-frou merchandise.

Peter’s smiling when she turns back to him, a soft grin that seems to light up his whole face. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

“I know that,” MJ replies with a wink. She turns back to her computer. “So, purses take up a lot of room; especially name brand ones that have some heft to them. I’m trying to imagine how a police detective would stash stolen purses in his undercover cop car without Holmes seeing that footage.”

“Maybe there weren’t cameras inside the vehicle. Or he didn’t take a squad car.”

MJ taps her chin, thinking. “We need Yuri.”

“Hang on,” Peter says.

Two minutes later, they’re sitting around his cell phone, shoulder to shoulder as MJ says, “Can you figure out whether or not he was in a squad car when he went upstate?”

Yuri sounds mildly amused. “Well, I could check the logs. But that’s through a backdoor I installed in the PDNY’s system before I left. And I’m wondering how our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man feels about that, considering the ethical dilemma he faced earlier this week about stealing those tapes for me.”

Peter stiffens. “You have an illegal backdoor into the police’s _entire_ system?”

“Just for logistical stuff. You’re not really one to talk, Spider-Cop. Weren’t you the one piggybacking on our crime towers during the Fisk takedown?”

MJ groans. “Okay, now’s not the time for a moral debate. Yuri, do it. This could lead us right to Anderson.”

She goes silent for a moment, during which Peter sinks in the couch, sulking. MJ pats his arm, only halfway sympathetic. A few minutes later, Yuri’s back, sounding impressed. “He did, in fact, take the squad car. And the cameras were running the whole time. I’m not seeing any boxes, but he loaded something big into the trunk late that night.”

“What’d he do with it?” MJ asks, sitting straighter.

“Stand by…” Yuri hums. “Nothing. He swung by a UPS store early the next morning and dropped it off.”

“He shipped it to himself,” MJ gapes. “Sneaky bastard. I bet he didn’t even file that police report.”

Yuri goes silent for another moment before saying, “Nope. God, Holmes is getting sloppy, missing this. I always checked my detectives’ routes.”

“Yeah, yeah, you were a great cop,” Peter says, exasperated. “What’s the UPS store? Can we call them for Anderson’s shipping address?”

“I can—” Yuri cuts herself off, then comes back, more urgent than ever. “Spider-Man, are you watching the news? They found him. They _found_ him!”

“Anderson??”

MJ trips over Peter to flick on the TV, turning it to NCC. Sure enough, Debra Kiddings and Mark Follmoth are perched behind their table with grim expressions. _BREAKING NEWS_ cycles in block letters at the bottom of the screen, and a picture of Anderson is displayed left of Debra’s face.

“ _The Chinatown Killer, now known as PDNY detective Joshua Anderson, has finally revealed himself. He’s taken hostages in the Trust US Bank on 54 th Street, prompting the end to a city-wide manhunt. The situation is still developing, but we’ve received reports that police are on the scene. Everyone in a city block has been ordered to evacuate—” _

MJ mutes the TV, staring at Peter in horror. “Hostages. Peter, he’s going to kill them. We have to stop him!”

“I’m on my way,” Yuri says, and the phone goes dead.

Peter, on the other hand, grinds his teeth. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“He’s _in the bank_!”

“We don’t know that! What if it’s another red herring? What if he’s doing this just to get you alone?”

“Then call Miles and get him over here. Peter, every second you waste is another second someone could die. You _have_ to go.” MJ grips his arm, stares into his eyes. “ _Please_. I can’t be the reason more lives are lost.”

He swallows hard, pushing off the couch, shoving his phone into the inconspicuous pocket of his suit. MJ tosses him the mask, and this time, he doesn’t take the front door. This time, he strides right for the window. “I’m getting Miles here as soon as possible, okay? Just—keep the windows locked, and _call me_ if anything happens. Anything, MJ. I mean it.”

“I swear,” MJ says, gripping her cell phone like a lifeline.

Peter pauses at the window. “I love you.”

She swallows hard. “Love you too. Go save some lives… for both of us.”

He draws a shaking breath and lifts the window, catapults himself outside. MJ peeks out after him, squinting at the fire escape, but it’s late at night and the angle isn’t great to see all the way down. Still, the night is as quiet as New York City can be, so she slams the window shut and locks it, then draws the drapes again.

Settles onto the couch, watching the situation develop, pho forgotten in this turn of events.

 

She doesn’t hear the knife slide under the bedroom window’s latch, flicking it open.

 

 

She doesn’t hear the glass inch upwards.

 

 

 

And she doesn’t hear Anderson climb inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	13. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson finds her, and it doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I want to emphasize these triggers. Warning for: 
> 
> ~ Sexual assault  
> ~ Physical assault  
> ~ Knife violence  
> ~ Psychological abuse  
> ~ Hospitals and waiting rooms
> 
> Most of the really explicit stuff happens in the first section, so if those first four distress you, skip ahead. Shit gets real, guys.

Some moments in life happen in fast, blinding flashes. Like fireworks blasting across a darkened sky, or a hospital wing with too-bright fluorescent lights, or a human bomb detonating in front of City Hall.

Anderson’s attack is one of those moments.

MJ is watching the news with rapt attention, pho abandoned in front of a web browser open the address of that UPS store upstate, clutching a pillow to her chest as Spider-Man swings onto the bank scene.

And then a knife is against her throat.

She doesn’t remember when she stood up, but somehow Anderson has her bent over the back of the couch, his serrated blade pinching her skin, hot blood tickling her throat as it bubbles around the folded metal. She can barely manage shallow gasps without driving the blade deeper into her skin. Her mind screams to _run, move, attack!_ but she’s absolutely paralyzed.

Anderson’s mind games have worked. She thinks of the post-it note, the flowers, the message carved in that dead girl’s flesh, and for once, MJ has nothing to say.

His eyes are haunting. He doesn’t smile. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly and pinched with anger. “Hello, Mary Jane. Did you miss me?”

Fuck.

He’s going to kill her.

“P-Peter,” she breathes, fumbling for her cell phone. Imagining a moment where a knife isn’t slicing her flesh, where her arm isn’t broken and aching in pain, where she flips Anderson over her shoulder and tases him into submission and when Peter comes slinging home, she’s standing over his crippled body, triumphant.

It’s a flash of a future she’ll never see.

Anderson leans past her, pressing flush against her prone body. Something solid shoves against her thigh—no, not _something,_ she knows exactly what that is—and when she inhales sharply, he twists his hips so she really feels it.

Then he flicks the cell phone onto the ground, well out of reach. It skitters under the coffee table.

Salvation. There.

Gone.

“Peter’s busy right now,” he breathes. “But don’t worry. I’m going to make this quick.”

MJ’s breath hitches.

He laughs, pressing the knife a modicum deeper into her neck as his grimy fingers flutter over the goosebumps pebbling her arms. His thumb dives under her cast, feathering the sensitive skin, and she shudders.

This is why she took decades of martial arts. _This moment,_ right here, where a man forces himself on her and her only realistic response is physical violence.

But all it’d take is one jerk of that serrated blade and she’s gone. So she doesn’t protest.

Not yet.

“I wanted you, Mary Jane. More than the others. I wanted to taste you, experience everything you are. And you just—you _ruined_ that.”

Didn’t she shoot him? Her eyes flick to his left shoulder, because _he_ doesn’t have healing powers. _He_ can’t bounce back from a bullet wound. But his grip is strong as ever, and a dark part of her mind whispers, _wishful thinking_.

“And you know what the worst part is?”

She tries to glare, but fear is heightening everything, and suddenly it feels like she’s been his prisoner for either a hundred years or a few seconds. She needs help. Where is Miles? Where’s _Peter_?

It was a ruse. All a ruse. Peter knew it, too, and she was too arrogant, too fucking blind to take him seriously, _again_.

Peter. God. He’s going to be devastated.

Anderson doesn’t care. His eyes are bloodshot, glazed, sunken into his skull. His shadow is a few hours past five o’clock. He licks his lips and stares at her until she meets his gaze, then traces her jawline.

“The worst part,” he whispers, darkly, “is that you were fucking Spider-Man this whole time. I was going to be _famous_ , you stupid bitch. The detective who captured New York’s most prolific serial killer. And then you just—you brought Spider-Man and his little apprentice to _our night_ , and you ruined _everything_.”

Famous? It’s like her mind is a frayed mess of damaged electrical wires, sparking without direction. She can’t seem to pin a thought, can’t seem to wrap her mind around what Anderson is saying.

“Y-You wanted to—” she starts, hoarsely.

Anderson slams his fist into her stomach.

She gasps, reeling backwards, mind whiting with pain and fear. The baby. The _baby_. A scream erupts, but his hand winds behind her neck, pinching until pain sparks in her brain, and then he yanks her back against the knife’s blade.

“You don’t speak. You don’t _get_ to speak,” he snarls.

Tears stream down her cheeks.

The baby.

Peter’s baby.

 _No_.

Suddenly, Anderson chuckles. It’s a cold, dark sound that slides down her spine, causing her to shiver. Pain thrums from her arm, her stomach, but the fear of what’s happening overrides everything. Her muscles are tight with terror. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, you know what I realized, Mary Jane?” He bends closer, grinning. His teeth are dazzling white, but his words are like black sludge, tainting her soul. “No one remembers the detectives anyway. The serial killers get all the credit.”

Without a breath, he shoves his mouth against hers. Fresh blood spills around the blade as he applies pressure, too much pressure, _oh god he’s going to kill her_ pressure. But he doesn’t even seem aware of it, not in this moment. He’s hot and insistent and his lips taste like whiskey and sticky chapstick and his breath paints the side of her face with a scent she’ll never be able to forget, not ever, not until the day she dies.

Which might just be _right now_.

Life flashes, and suddenly MJ is thrashing against him, beating his arms, kicking where it’ll hurt, fighting for her life. For Peter. For the baby—if the baby is even—

_No no NO._

“Get the _hell_ off me,” she screams, a blood-curdling sound that must pierce every one of her neighbors’ apartments. _Call the cops,_ she wants to sob. _Save me._

But her raw fury, her unbridled indignance, her white-hot terror—it’s not enough. Because Anderson operates like a man possessed, even after she slams her cast into his injured shoulder, when he should be doubled over in pain, he just flinches and yanks the knife away from her neck.

Up. Over his head.

Then down, faster than she can track.

The blade glints in the TV’s flickering light, where Debra and Mark are still talking about how Anderson is definitely in the bank, definitely holding people hostage, and the manhunt has definitely ended.

Meanwhile, Detective Joshua Anderson buries the blade in MJ’s stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

Miles slings so fast the wind bites his cheeks through his mask. It’s definitely cold now—winter really came fast—and the warmth of Gwen’s quiet, “ _do you still like me?”_ has vanished under the cold reality of Peter’s words.

_“Get to our apartment, fast! I’m going after Anderson.”_

Protect MJ. That’s what Peter needs from him. He offered to help at the bank, but Peter sounded so freaked out about leaving MJ alone that Miles doesn’t push the matter. It’s kind of amazing, the love those two have for each other. They’re not a magical, perfect couple. They argue. They fight. But _god_ , they love each other.

They love each other just like his mom and dad used to.

Miles couldn’t save his dad, but he’ll be damned if Peter faces that kind of loss with MJ.

So he slings, hard and fast, through the city, trying not to think about how he just abandoned Gwen in that coffee shop. Their possible relationship isn’t important, not right now. But—shoot, maybe he should have walked her home first.

After all, a killer might still be loose.

But Miles doesn’t have time to think about it, because that’s when MJ’s building comes into view. He’s swung by enough times to know exactly which windows belong to her apartment. And with his heightened vision, he notices the problem instantly.

The bedroom window is open.

His mind narrows to one thought: _This can’t be happening._

MJ would have closed that window. She’s reckless, lives like she has something to prove, but she isn’t stupid.

His spider-sense screams, which means there’s immediate danger beyond that glass. Miles doesn’t think. He just webs either side of her building and catapults himself feet-first through the living room window.

The glass shatters in a spectacular spray, and Miles’s eyes lock on MJ as she slides down the back of the couch, crumples to the floor out of sight, as Anderson retracts a bloody knife and looms over her with a cold smirk.

Miles’s heart stutters. He screams in fury and fires his web shooters.

But the bastard isn’t falling for that twice. Anderson ducks behind the couch, beside MJ, and cackles like he’s _won_ something.

He hasn’t won anything. “Get away from her,” Miles roars, his whole body hot with fury, his web-shooters ticking with every sling of fluid. The living room coats with sticky webbing, but Anderson wastes no time diving into the bedroom.

Miles sprints after him, watching the man all-but fling himself out the open window.

“Catch me or save her,” he calls, his voice almost gleeful. “Choose wisely, Spider-Baby.”

And then he’s gone.

He’s _gone_.

Miles lunges after him. If he can just snag a limb with his webbing, just pin him _somewhere_ , just for a moment, then—

—then MJ might die, and for what?

With a shout of frustration, of defeat, Miles spins from the window, back into the living room. “MJ! Mary Jane! Are you okay?” He skids to his knees beside her, and promptly chokes on his words.

No. Shit, she’s _not_ okay. Blood oozes from her neck, her tearstained face deathly pale, eyelids fluttering because—oh _god_ , because he stabbed her. He fucking _stabbed her_.

Miles is trembling, immediately shoving his hands over the wound in her stomach. Blood bubbles past his fingers. He applies more pressure, and MJ inhales sharply as her eyes roll into her skull.

Some distant part of him whimpers, _careful, you’ll hurt the baby_ , but if the baby’s going to have a chance, MJ needs attention first.

Miles thought long and hard in the hours where Yuri pinned Peter under her knife, fishing out a bullet that never should have lodged itself there in the first place. He ran through the bank vault scenario a hundred times, wondering what he could have done differently, bobbed instead of weaved, webbed instead of gaped, pushed Peter out of the way instead of watching the bullet careen towards him in slow motion.

But the one thing Miles wishes he’d done when Peter laid on that chipped tile floor, bleeding out under Yuri’s hand?

Webbed the wound shut.

It seems like such simple first-aid, but Peter’s always so careful when he takes Miles on patrol. Not much hurts him; after a decade of practice, he’s too good at being Spider-Man. By extension, not much hurts Miles, because Peter’s always there to intervene. So they never really talked about how to staunch a bleeding wound.

Especially not when it’s gushing from Mary Jane’s stomach.

He yanks her sodden shirt up with bloodstained gloves, takes aim, and smacks her skin with a burst of webbing.

In his mind, replaying Peter’s trauma, this would have fixed everything.

In reality, it slows the blood flow, but MJ’s still ashen, still unconscious.

Still dying.

“Oh god, oh god,” Miles stammers. “A h-hospital. You need a hospital. _Shit_ , Mary Jane, just hold on.” He scoops her up, sprints for the broken living room window. He’s not very good slinging with company, but if there’s ever a time to learn, now’s it.

But before he makes it two steps, Spider-Man crashes through the broken glass.

Miles has _never_ been so glad to see Peter Parker in his entire freaking life.

“Mary Ja—” Peter chokes on her name, freezing for a heart-stopping moment as his eyes land on her face. On her blood-soaked stomach. On her limp hand, falling near Miles’s elbow. Peter rips off his mask, eyes bright with tears. “No. _No_.”

“She’s alive, man,” Miles says, because there’s a time for grief, and today _isn’t it_. Anderson just stabbed her; there’s no way she can be dead yet. No way the story of Mary Jane Watson ends right here, the victim of a violent crime and a crazed killer.

Not on his watch.

“We need to move. My mom’s hospital is a block away. Can you swing with her?”

Peter’s still staring at MJ. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.

“ _Peter_ ,” Miles snarls.

His sharp tone kicks Peter into gear. He yanks his mask on again and scoops MJ out of Miles’s arms. He risks a glance at his empty hands, but her blood is nearly invisible against the black material of his suit. He doesn’t tell Peter, but he can feel the warmth eek out of her blood, slowly replaced with cool wetness that sticks to his skin.

Without a word, Peter spins for the window, and Miles wastes no time diving after them.

Peter has a lot of experience slinging around with MJ in his arms. Even a limp, unconscious MJ, apparently, because he readjusts his grip and swings fluidly through the city streets. Miles shouts directions, and within minutes, they’re landing hard outside the ER.

Peter all-but screams for help, nearly kicking down the sliding glass doors as he sprints inside. It plays like a movie where the camera holds back and the audio goes silent; Miles watches from the street as nurses and doctors swarm Mary Jane, as ER visitors gawk at Spider-Man staggering away from this random redheaded woman.

In their eyes, he’s just rescuing another mugging victim.

In Miles’s, Peter’s whole world is crashing down.

The doctors sprint MJ through swinging double doors, and Peter runs in the opposite direction. Back into the street, moving on instinct off the asphalt, up and over Miles’s head, vanishing past the neighboring rooftop.

Miles clenches his eyes shut and follows, just as fast.

Peter didn’t go far. He’s collapsed to his hands and knees, fingers digging into the gravel of the rooftop, gulping deep, sobbing breaths. His mask is abandoned at his side, and Miles tugs his own off, cautiously. Part of him thinks, _protect your identity, what if someone is watching?_ But the rest of him sees Peter utterly broken and knows some things are more important.

“H-Hey, man. She’ll be okay,” Miles says, sinking beside him.  

Peter moans, pressing his forehead to the ground, rocking back and forth.

They both know that’s not true.

 

* * *

 

 

Spider-Man isn’t answering his phone, and Yuri knows why the moment she kicks down the door to his girlfriend’s apartment. It’s—it looks like a crime scene. Her stomach sinks, and she swallows past a suddenly dry mouth.

Not “his girlfriend.” Her name is MJ.

 _Was_ MJ, if the amount of blood saturating her beige carpet is any indication.

Jesus. This is something Yuri doesn’t miss about being a cop. These victims, the brave souls who dared to fight in a hopeless situation, these ones broke her. She got _so_ tired of pacing around their blood, reconstructing their last minutes, breaking the news to their families. They died heroes, she always said.

But they shouldn’t have died at all.

Yuri tries to distance herself from it. Spider-Man— _Peter_ —is obviously taking care of MJ. The nearest hospital is just a block away; undoubtedly she’ll find them there. But Anderson wasn’t at the bank, and he isn’t in the apartment, which means he’s still loose, somewhere. And Peter won’t be in any shape to track him down.

Not after this.

And so, Yuri sets her jaw and slips back into her detective’s mask. It’s not as visible as Spider-Man’s, but it’s no less effective. She looks past the blood, analyzes the clues she’s offered. Takes pictures of the footsteps indenting the carpet, the direction of the splatters, the discarded cell phone under the coffee table, the dissolving webbing and shattered glass in the living room… all the way to the cautiously lifted window in their quiet bedroom.

It doesn’t take long to piece it together. It’s not a fate she’d wish on her enemies, much less someone as astute and cunning as Mary Jane. Anderson escaped, obviously, so Yuri slips onto the fire escape, retracing his steps.

Cops skid to a stop in the busy street below, ostentatious and ineffective. Someone clearly called them here, probably heard the fight MJ obviously gave, but it’s too late. Yuri lets them hustle their way to the apartment, all the while thumping down the metal rungs of the fire escape.

The ladder is resting against the ground, hidden from police view by a heavy dumpster. She lands heavily on the concrete, then tugs out her blacklight, flicks it on to scan for blood. Surely MJ got _one_ good hit in. Surely there’s something to track Anderson with.

But there isn’t. The alley is dirty, disgusting, but nothing’s fresh.

Yuri clenches her jaw and turns the corner of the alley, just as the cops find the open bedroom window fifteen stories up.

Disgust sits heavy in Yuri’s gut as she strolls back onto the street, heading for the hospital.

She and Spider-Man had been _so_ close. Anderson blackmailed some poor guy by pretending he was holding her daughter hostage, then handed him a semi-automatic and directed him to the bank. Security cameras were grainy enough that when the guy declared himself the Chinatown Killer, no one looked twice to make sure it was really Anderson.

And just after they arrived on the scene and Peter got a good look at him, realized it wasn’t Anderson, Yuri’s phone pinged with an alert.

Someone was in Mary Jane’s apartment.

Spider-Man was off before she could react, and Yuri couldn’t hope to follow. So she stayed for a few extra minutes, watching from the shadows as the cops and press tittered about the serial killer beyond the bank windows.

Yet another oversight on a long list of oversights for Captain Holmes.

It brings Yuri a sick kind of pleasure. She left her job, sure, but at least she had a pristine reputation before she vanished. Even after the fight with Hammerhead, her squad murmured that they trusted her, that she must know what she was doing.

Ten bucks says no one’s murmuring that about Holmes.

Of course, the reason Yuri left was to avoid the bureaucracy and red tape, to solve crimes faster, deliver judgement swifter. But nothing about Anderson is swift, and that irks her. She’s thrown herself into this case, enlisted _Spider-_ Man for help, and they’ve still come up empty.

Of course, just as she rounds the corner and sets eyes on the hospital, fists clenched in her leather jacket’s pockets, Yuri remembers the purses.

A slow smile tilts her lips, and she plucks out her phone.

So far, Anderson’s been one step ahead.

But none of them were counting on Mary Jane Watson.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes Miles almost an hour to coax Peter off that rooftop, help him change into civilian clothes—taken from one of the backpacks Peter webbed to a nearby building for emergencies, since _neither_ of them were going back to MJ’s apartment anytime soon—and get him into the emergency waiting room.

Peter moves like a zombie, eyes hollow and distant, mouth slack, tears streaking down his face. Miles silently sets him in a chair in the back corner of the busy room, then goes to talk to the nurse manning the check-in desk.

A custodian is mopping up MJ’s blood. Miles averts his gaze, clenching his hands in his pockets. He changed too, back into the hoodie he’d stuffed in his knapsack, but the dried flakes of MJ’s blood aren’t so easily removed.

He can’t even muster a smile when he steps to the desk. “H-Hi. I’m, um… we’re here for Mary Jane Watson. Is there news?”

“Who?” the nurse asks, squinting at the computer screen for her name. They must not have IDed her yet, not without a phone or license. The idea that she’s undoubtedly been labeled as Jane Doe, even when the people who care about her are right outside, is sickening.

Still, Miles can’t very well say, “ _The woman Spider-Man dropped off,_ ” not without incriminating themselves. So he tugs his collar and tries a different route. “Is Rio Morales here? She should be on duty, working in pediatrics.”

“That’s on the fourth floor, hon. Want me to page her?”

He’d call her himself, but she always leaves her phone in her locker at work. Miles nods numbly. “Yeah. Tell her it’s Miles, her son.”

The woman smiles warmly at him and gets on the phone.

A few minutes later, Rio bustles into the waiting room. Miles springs to his feet from his spot beside Peter, who doesn’t even seem to notice Rio’s arrival.

Rio glances at her son’s mentor and frowns. Silently, she tugs Miles out of hearing range—except she has no clue Peter’s hearing is insane, so it’s a moot point. And yet Peter doesn’t move, just continues to stare at the linoleum with dull eyes, as Rio clasps her son’s shoulders and looks him up and down.

“Who’s hurt?”

Miles’s eyes burn. He’s been trying to stay strong, keep it together for Peter, but now his mom’s here. Suddenly he doesn’t want to be the strong one.

“P-Peter’s girlfriend. Mary Jane. She—she was stabbed, _Mam_ _á_ ,” he whispers. MJ’s blood feels grainy against his fingers.

Rio pales. “Isn’t she pregnant?”

He nods.

Rio swears under her breath, then kisses Miles’s forehead. “Stay with him. I’ll find out what’s happening.” She pauses, tilts his chin up, and asks, “Are _you_ okay, Miles?”

“I s-saw it happen.” The scene flashes through his mind again—MJ sliding to the carpet, limp, Anderson leaning over her with a bloodstained knife—and he clenches his eyes shut. He’s shaking now, and Rio rubs his arms.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs in Spanish. “It’ll be okay.”

Miles wipes his nose with his sleeve, then remembers his bloodstained hands and shoves them back into his pockets. “Y-Yeah.”

“Stay here. I’ll be back,” Rio promises, and vanishes between the swinging double doors they wheeled MJ through an hour ago.

Miles sinks next to Peter again. “My mom’s going to check on her,” he says, although he’s not sure Peter’s listening. Even though the ER is bustling, their corner is almost too quiet, and his words seem to echo.

Peter stares miserably at the floor.

They sit in silence for another few minutes. Guilt stews in Miles’s chest, heavy as the grief Peter must be feeling. He was supposed to protect MJ. That was his _job_ , and then he just—he just left, off to have coffee like it was another normal night. Like a serial killer wasn’t hunting Peter’s girlfriend.

Stupid. _Stupid_.

Suddenly, he doesn’t even feel worthy to sit beside Peter. Suddenly, MJ’s blood feels like poison, burning his hands, a vivid reminder of how he failed. Miles’s breath hitches, and he shoves to his feet. “I’m gonna use the bathroom.”

Peter stays silent.

So Miles leaves, nearly sprinting to the restrooms, where he proceeds to scrub his fingers until the skin is raw. MJ’s blood washes down the sink, staining the white ceramic rust-red, and he takes extra time to clean the area until there’s nothing left.

No sign of MJ’s trauma at all.

Reluctantly, he pads back to Peter, half-expecting—fearing—to see his mom already back, expression sympathetic, shaking her head. But it’s not Rio who’s standing over Peter’s hunched shoulders. It’s Yuri Watanabe.

His mouth goes dry, and he runs, nearly tripping over a patient cradling a broken finger in his haste. Yuri glances his way, face expressionless, as Miles demands, “Did you find him?”

Yuri’s jaw tightens. “No. He was long gone when I got to the apartment.” Then she glances at Peter. “He’s… not doing well, is he?”

“I can hear you,” Peter mumbles.

“First time for everything, considering I got here five minutes ago.”

Miles bristles at her sharp tone. “Hey, leave him alone.” _He’s grieving_ , Miles almost adds, but it feels to final, too solid. Like saying that would bet the Universe to prove him right. That MJ’s life really hangs in the balance of a few words.

Yuri crosses her arms. “I’m sorry, but Anderson’s still out there. We don’t have time to—”

“Time to _what_ , Yuri?” Peter hisses, deathly quiet. For the first time in an hour, his eyes are alight with emotion, a kaleidoscope of pain and despair. “Time to wait for news of my pregnant girlfriend? Remember, the one _you_ roped into this goddamn mess in the first place? The one who wouldn’t even _be_ here if you hadn’t put her on Anderson’s radar?”

His voice rises with every word, until they’re almost shouting, until the other guests are looking their way and the nurse at the front desk stands, as if braced for a confrontation.

Yuri glances at them, then narrows her eyes. “Let’s take this outside.” She reaches for Peter’s arm, probably to tug him towards the door.

He shoves her away, hard enough she stumbles. Nearly falls.

Her eyes widen.

His do too.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he chokes, shoving his hands in his pockets. They’re rust-red too, Miles notes dimly. Peter hunches into himself. “I’m sorry.” It’s barely a whisper, now. But instead of following Yuri outside, he sinks back into the plastic chair, shaking in earnest, gripping his hair with his head in his hands. “I can’t leave. I can’t leave her.”

Yuri presses her lips into a firm line, glancing at Miles.

Miles glares back. “If you want Anderson so bad, go find him yourself,” he says, hotly.

It’s ironic, since _he’s_ the one who let Anderson get away. But that’s because he prioritized MJ, which is exactly what Peter’s doing. And Peter never steers him wrong. Rio’s going to come back with good news, and—and damn it, they’ll be waiting.

“I followed her lead,” Yuri says, quietly. “Called the UPS store and got his shipping address. Security cameras show solid footage that he’s been using it as his home base for the last few days.”

Now Peter looks up, sharply.

Yuri turns for the door. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

For a breath, Miles thinks maybe Peter’s going to follow her. But he just watches the ex-cop step through the glass doors, stride into the darkness, vanish around the building.

And a few seconds later, the double-doors swing open, and Rio steps out with a grim expression. Miles’s heart sinks; he’s visited her at work enough times to know that’s her _consoling the family_ expression. Already, he’s shaking his head as she sits on the other side of Peter, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Pete, honey. I found her. She’s still in surgery.”

Miles’s shoulders sag. _Still in surgery._ Which means she’s still alive.

But Rio’s still wearing that sad expression.

Peter trembles under her comforting touch. His face is so pale, Miles would think _he’s_ been stabbed. “H-How is she?” The words shatter under the pressure of that sentence.

“She’s a fighter,” Rio says, softly. Her dark eyes slip to Miles, and she inhales slowly. “But… the baby didn’t make it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*


	14. The Last Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Physical assault. Gun violence. Welcome to the end.

He must have misheard.

Surely, Peter misheard.

His girlfriend, his best friend, his _family_ , is bleeding out on some surgical table. Her attacker is still roaming the streets. A man in a distant bank is holding innocents hostage because he’s terrified for his family.

And now the only bright spot of the week, Peter’s future, his _legacy_ … is gone.

Snuffed in a single, violent act.

Dear god, his luck can’t be this bad, can it?

Then Peter remembers the moment he held the Devil’s Breath cure in one hand, Aunt May’s weak fingers in the other, and made the choice to doom one of them. So, yeah, it can. And it always, always is.

The whole world fades as Peter’s mind systematically strips their baby from his future.

The birth, where MJ squeezes his hand hard enough to break bones, where he shouts encouragement until she shoots him a withering look and he falls sheepishly silent until the moment their baby screams.

The baby’s first steps—he imagined it as a little girl, little May—where he’s kneeling on the floor, grinning ear to ear while he beckons her forward, then remembers MJ at the last second and scrambles for his phone to call her at work.

Her first birthday, where Miles drops by after a night of patrolling to give her a silly little gift he picked up from some toy store in Brooklyn, where Peter and MJ sing and May claps and it’s one of those moments where he revels in the fact that he’s not a retired superhero: he’s a _dad_ , and it’s everything he ever wanted.

“Pete?” Miles squeezes his shoulder.

It's everything he ever wanted. 

Peter stares at his hands, stained with MJ’s blood. He can feel it crusting his stomach, where her wound brushed his suit, can smell the sharp, metallic scent of rust mixing with the overpowering antiseptic of the hospital.

His voice sounds distant and hollow, even to him. “B-But she’s going to make it. Right?”

Rio doesn’t reply.

And the resulting silence might as well be another bullet to his chest. Panic wells, not the dull, devastating certainty of a lost child, but the terrifying unknown of a death that might still happen. It pulses through Peter’s body, cuts off his air, chokes him from the inside.

Miles wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a strong hug. “She will, man. Of course she will.”

But he _has_ to say that.

Peter looks again at Rio, a nurse who’s seen enough death to know what it looks like.

“It’s still early, honey,” Rio whispers. “The surgery is extensive. It’s going to take time. And—and she only flatlined once, forty minutes ago—”

“She flatlined?” Miles exclaims, horrified.

Peter just stares, fresh tears spilling over his cheeks. This… this is his literal nightmare. All those years he was stifling and overprotective, it was to prevent _this_ reality. And MJ was right; it didn’t wind up mattering anyway. She still got hurt. He still couldn’t stop it.

Rio squeezes his hand. “It’s still early,” she repeats. “I promise I’ll keep an eye on her, okay? I’ll let her know you’re out here, praying. Missing her.”

The words are kind, but it’s all over her face, that hurt, that ache of sympathy for another grieving widow.

Well, widower, in Peter’s case.

Well, _person who lost a loved one_ , because he and MJ aren’t married.

Oh, god. They never had the chance to get married. Jesus Christ, what was he _doing_ all these years? He’s been living and loving the most amazing woman, and she might die without anyone knowing what she really means to him.

She might die.

She might _die_.

Peter pushes to his feet, abruptly. His head pounds, and his heart aches dully, and for the first time in days it’s not because of Anderson’s bullet.

But it _is_ Anderson’s fault.

“I have to go.”

“W-Wait, man, you can’t just leave,” Miles surges to his feet, eyes wide. “MJ’s waiting for you. She needs you!”

It’s an out-of-body experience. Peter watches from afar as his expression hardens, his jaw clenches, his hands tighten into fists. Inside, he’s positively _screaming_ , hasn’t stopped screaming since he broke through the living room window and saw Miles cradling MJ’s unconscious, bloody form, but outside his voice is calm, cold as ice, sharp as Anderson’s knife.

“I have to take care of something.”

He doesn’t look at Rio, and he doesn’t look at Miles. He just walks out of the ER.

Miles doesn’t follow. The softer part of Peter, the part MJ loves, the “friendly neighborhood Spider-Man” part, thanks his friend for staying behind, for being there for MJ when Peter can’t.

But that part is buried so deep beneath grief and fury that Peter can’t even turn around to voice the words.

He just plucks out his phone and makes a call.

And when Yuri answers on the second ring, he doesn’t waste time. “Text me Anderson’s address.”

“I’m already here,” she says, like she was expecting this. “How fast can you get to Midtown?”

“Sixty seconds,” Peter replies, tilting his head towards the buildings dwarfing the hospital.

He should change into his suit. Tug on the mask, become Spider-Man, protect his identity before webbing a building and swinging to Midtown. But—MJ might die. The last vestige of his family, the last person he wants to protect, could die any minute.

Does it matter, now, if anyone knows the truth?

Peter doesn’t think so.

So when Yuri texts the address, he doesn’t step out of sight of the ER. He doesn’t wait. He just webs himself to a nearby rooftop and hauls himself off the ground, airborne in moments, swinging cold and fast towards Anderson’s hideout.

Because really, Spider-Man was written off the moment Peter abandoned his best friend, his love, to save a dozen strangers. Spider-Man does things for the greater good. But if Peter had dropped the Spider-Man act, been more selfish, maybe MJ would still be safe.

Maybe their baby would still be alive.

Suddenly, he hates his alter-ego almost as much as he hates himself.

But none of it compares to how much he hates Anderson. It’s like his normal personality has drowned in a tidal wave of fury, black as night and red as MJ’s blood. It’s still shouting, trying desperately to be his usual voice of reason, but Peter can’t hear it over the icy certainty that Anderson is going to die tonight.

And Peter will be the one pulling the trigger.

He makes it to the address in seventy-two seconds, after six ignored calls from Miles. He can’t hear what his protégé has to say about this, and he doesn’t want Miles following him. Not because of MJ, but because Miles has to be better than what Peter’s about to do.

Yuri’s perched on the opposite rooftop, peering through binoculars, and as a courtesy, he lands beside her first. She stares—gapes, really—and says, “Wow. Slinging through the streets without your suit? Bold.”

Peter doesn’t even glance at his plain clothes. “Being Spider-Man hasn’t gotten me much, lately.” The words are forced past gritted teeth, dripping with rage.

Yuri frowns. “Peter—”

“You’re sure that’s him?”

She sighs, offers him the binoculars, but he doesn’t need them to see Anderson’s shadow moving beyond the closed drapes of his fourth-floor apartment. His stomach curdles into a tight, dry ball of anger.

“It’s him,” she says, when he doesn’t take the binoculars. “The lobby has a security camera, and he doesn’t bother avoiding it. Probably didn’t think anyone could track him here.”

Mistake number one thousand. Peter hops onto the rooftop’s ledge, taking aim at either side of the building. As far as he’s concerned, they’re done talking.

They’re done with everything that isn’t _murdering Anderson_.

But Yuri grabs his arm before he can propel himself through the window. “Wait! You can’t just crash in. This might be our only chance to catch this guy, and if we lose him—”

“I won’t lose him,” Peter replies, darkly.

“We have to be smart about this.”

Peter wrenches out of her grasp, spinning on her with such ferocity that she physically steps backwards. “This asshole broke into _my home_ , stabbed _my girlfriend,_ and killed _my baby,_ all because you told me he was at a bank with hostages. Forgive me if I’m done taking orders from you, Yuri.”

She blinks, stunned, but he doesn’t need her for this.

He doesn’t need her for anything.

He webs either side of the building and catapults himself across the street, twisting midair to aim his boots directly at Anderson’s window. At the speed he’s going, the glass might as well be paper, for all he rips through it.

As hyper-focused as he is, Peter takes in the entire scene in a microsecond. Time seems to slow as he scans the living room. He sees the TV, tuned to the local news, where the man coerced into robbing the bank is being handcuffed by police. He sees printed articles of the Chinatown Killer spread on the glass coffee table, with MJ’s topping the stack. He sees a laptop open to dossiers of the victims, the screen fingerprinted with oily smudges.

And he sees Anderson, turning towards him with a beer in hand.

It’s Anderson’s clothes that really get Peter, though. It's mostly normal, just a white button-down, but Peter can see bloodstains, spatters of _MJ’s blood_ , underneath his jacket. Like he stabbed MJ, escaped down the fire escape, and then just… moseyed home.

Like MJ’s blood was such a nonevent he didn’t even bother changing before he grabbed a beer.

Peter fucking sees _red_.

“What are you—” is all Anderson gets out before Peter grabs his throat.

He’s never held someone in a choke hold before, never squeezed their neck so hard their eyes bulged, never watched the saliva dribble from their mouths as they sucked for air that would never come.

It’s not satisfying. But watching Anderson die certainly is.

And yet, it’s not enough. This man made so many women suffer. MJ suffered _so much_ , and it was this animal’s fault. Death by choking is too good for him. Peter wants him to bleed for what he’s done.

So he lifts Anderson off the ground with one hand. His beer crashes to the tile floor. The bottle shatters, and a dark brew splashes over Peter’s boots and jeans.

Revenge. Peter’s never craved it so much, but he does now. He just keeps thinking of MJ crumpling after Anderson stabbed her. Keeps thinking of how Miles must have skidded to her side, too late to intervene. Thinks of how Rio probably watched from the window of that surgical suite, covering her mouth as another nurse told her the baby was gone.

He stares Anderson down, forces the man to meet his cold, hard gaze. And he carries Anderson by the neck into the living room. Then, without a word, he slams the serial killer onto the glass coffee table.

Something snaps, and Anderson screams. The coffee table collapses beneath him, and huge shards of glass scatter across the carpet. The laptop screen splinters from the chassis, and Peter steps on it as he towers over Anderson.

Somehow, Anderson must have gotten cut, because blood stains the news articles he’d been so proudly displaying. It's fitting. His blood all over the memories of his victims. 

Anderson gasps for air, twisting onto his stomach. Reaching for something— _oh_ , Peter thinks, lips curling in cruel amusement. _His gun_.

Peter plucks it out of the holster before Anderson can reach it. Spider-Man doesn’t use guns, so Peter’s experience with them is limited to, “ _and we’re tossing_ this _into the garbage, thank you very much.”_

But Spider-Man’s not here right now. Peter examines the gun with careful interest, then flicks off the safety. He’s seen enough bad guys scrambling to shoot him that he knows the next steps.

Aim.

Fire.

Deathly simple.

Anderson gasps for air, scrambling to get away as Peter aims the gun. He did, in fact, get cut—a sizable slice of his glass tabletop is embedded in his back, leaking dark red all over the carpet.

Peter imagines MJ, leaking dark red all over her favorite shirt, the one she bought after her first official article went live with the Bugle and she decided to splurge on something way too expensive. She'd felt guilty, but he loved it on her.

Wordlessly, Peter moves the muzzle from Anderson’s head to his heart.

 _It’s only fair_ , he thinks.

And then someone kicks down the front door.

“Drop it,” Yuri shouts.

Peter doesn't flinch. He doesn't move. He just glances at her, bristling with anger. “He stabbed her. He killed our _child_.”

“If you shoot him, you’re no better than he is.” Yuri strides into the apartment. Her own gun is drawn, but she points it at the floor, moving just like a cop. But she isn’t a cop. Not anymore. 

The irony of this situation is not lost on Peter.

“You—Are you _joking_?” he snarls. Yuri has been killing criminals far less evil than Anderson for almost a year, and never once shown remorse. But now that Peter is positioned to do the same, suddenly she has a problem with it?

Anderson is gasping, his breathing shallow, but he takes advantage of their fight to crawl for the window.

Oh, no, he doesn't. Peter smashes his foot onto the man’s back, driving the glass further into his flesh. Blood bubbles in earnest now, soaking Anderson's white button-down, washing MJ's flecks of blood with his own. He screams in agony.

But there's no remorse on Peter's end. It’s no worse than the pain Anderson put his victims through.

Yuri raises her gun, pointing it at Peter. “Spider-Man. Stand down.”

It’s like apples equal oranges. He literally can’t wrap his brain around what she’s saying, what she’s doing. “He deserves to die, Yuri.”

“Not by your hand. Drop the weapon.”

The gun is heavier than it should be, but he doesn’t let it go. “He _stabbed_ her,” he repeats, because nothing is more important to Peter than that simple fact. Anderson stabbed Mary Jane, the love of his life, and if MJ dies, Anderson should too.

But Yuri’s eyes narrow. “I need you to imagine what she’d say if she saw you right now, pointing a gun at an unarmed man.”

Oh.

O-Oh god.

Peter inhales, sharply. MJ… she’d be horrified to see him like this. He’s not a killer. He’s New York’s friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man, and he helps cats out of trees and old ladies cross the street. He doesn’t shoot someone in cold blood, even if that someone is a monster.

What is he _doing_?

Peter drops the gun, mouth dry, and steps back with his hands up.

Anderson twists for the weapon, but instincts kick in—Spider-Man instincts, not vindictive-Peter instincts—and he webs Anderson’s hand inches from the gun. Then he webs the rest of him to the floor, pinned prone the way he should have been in that bank vault. There’s no way he’s escaping this time, not without the supervision of a lot of police. But the relief that the Chinatown Killer has been caught is anticlimactic at best.

Peter’s still reeling from what he almost did.

Yuri lowers her gun, slowly, relief evident on her features. “Good choice.”

“T-Thanks,” he rasps. _Thanks for stopping me_ , is what he can’t say.

She nods, curtly.  

And then Anderson starts talking.

“So that’s it, t-then,” he stumbles over his words, obviously riddled with pain. His voice is hoarse from Peter choking him, but he still forces a grin, still rolls his eyes. “S-Spider-Man the h-hero. You caught me.”

Peter tries to web his mouth shut, but his face is smooshed against the floor. The angle’s all wrong, and Anderson laughs at the attempt. “A-Ah, ah. Maybe I shouldn’t c-call you Spider-Man. Maybe I should call you… P-Peter.”

Peter stiffens.

MJ warned he might know the truth, but—wow, it’s another thing entirely to hear it verified.

“Peter P-Parker,” Anderson coughs, presses his face to the carpet, and laughs hoarsely. “If they l-lock me up, I’m gonna tell everyone who you really are.”

“Are you _blackmailing_ me?” The words slip from Peter’s mouth before he can stop them. His tone isn’t cold with fury anymore; it’s heated now, anger and indigence warring for dominance.

Anderson shrugs underneath a blanket of webbing. “D-Depends on how much you value your p-privacy, Peter.”

Peter is paralyzed. Just a half hour ago, he webbed away from the ER, in plain clothes, in plain view. But—it’s late at night, and the space above the city streetlights is pretty dark. He moved fast enough that probably, no one got a picture.

But if anyone did, and Anderson goes around spouting Peter’s name, his secret identity is done.

His anonymous life with MJ is over.

If—no, _when_ , Peter thinks fiercely—she wakes up, she’ll have enough to worry about. Does she need this stress on top of it? Peter clenches his eyes shut, desperately trying to think of a solution to protect him… to protect _her_.

And then a gunshot goes off.

Anderson slumps, and blood dribbles from his mouth.

Yuri holsters her weapon. “Let’s go. Someone already called the cops. I’m sure Holmes will be here any minute.”

“What—did you _shoot_ him?” Peter exclaims, kneeling beside the serial killer. But Anderson’s dead, no way around it. His blue eyes are glassy, blood streaming into his close-shaved beard. Peter moves to feel for a pulse, but there's not much point. The bullet buried directly through his webbing, hitting exactly where Anderson's heart would be. He never stood a chance. 

Not that he deserved one, but still.

“You killed him,” Peter repeats. “After you explicitly told me not to.”

Yuri presses her lips together. Her gaze is sharp, so familiar to those nights they hunted killers as a vigilante/cop team.

“ _You_ aren’t a murderer, Peter. And I’m going to make damn sure it stays that way.”

And with that, she spins on her heels, striding for the door.

With nothing left to do, he follows, shoving his hands in his pockets as they head for the staircase. Now he does fish out his cell, call Miles back. They reach the street just as he answers, and Peter doesn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Miles? Hey. Sorry about that. I'm coming back. It's... it's over."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys forgive me? XD 
> 
> Sorry for killing the baby, but I warned you it wasn't going to be a pregnancy fic. That was pretty much always a plot device to me. Sweet, sweet angst. >:) (If anyone wants to make an alternate ending to this fic, where they get their proper pregnancy, you have my blessing. Cause pregnancy / kid fics aren't my thing, so you'll probably never get it outta me. :P )
> 
> Just the epilogue left, which I'm going to go write now! Should be up in a day or two. DAMN I'm good. So excited I finished this before April after all. XD THANK YOU to everyone who stuck around for the ride, and DEATH TO THE ASSHOLE. (Also love Yuri omg <3 <3 <3 )


	15. Epilogue 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ wakes up at the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: mention of miscarriage / lost child

Everything hurts, and MJ’s pretty sure she’s dying.

Peter used to make that joke, a reference to their favorite TV show, but he’d always wait until he _wasn’t_ on death’s door before saying it. This time, though, hazy with pain and a confusing sense of loss, MJ decides it’s her turn.

Too bad she can’t quite voice the words.

She tries, but awareness comes in flashes of light, bursts of sound, and none of it is her own voice. No, it’s the scraping of a chair against linoleum. The beep of a heart monitor. The murmur of a woman’s voice, familiar, yet so distant. When MJ tries to speak, to say something witty like that TV line, it comes out as a muted groan, and then the darkness reclaims her.

The darkness reclaims her a lot, actually.

It’s kind of annoying.

Of course, she’s so tired, sometimes it feels nice. There are moments where she thinks maybe she should relax into the inky black, the nothingness behind her eyelids where pain doesn’t exist and she’s safe and alone. Didn’t she want a moment alone, before? When she was puking in the toilet and someone— _Peter,_ her mind supplies—was hovering over her, oblivious to her misery, her embarrassment?

She wished to be alone.

Does she still want that?

 _No, honey_. _He still needs you._ The words echo through the black, an older voice that’s achingly familiar. A voice she hasn’t heard since—since the plague. MJ puzzles through who it is, until her mind whispers, _Aunt May_.

Aunt May.

God, MJ misses Aunt May. But if May says she needs to wake up, then she must be right. With nothing else to do, MJ claws her way out of the darkness, back to the awareness of what must be a hospital. She hopes it is, because it’s the only real thing tethering her here, and with May’s words and the darkness lapping at her heels, she needs something tangible.

But it’s not to be. MJ fights, and then she fades, and then she does it all over again.

Again and again and again.

How long has she been here? What’s happening? Is she—did she really die?

… How did she die?

It’s nauseating and terrifying and MJ can’t make sense of it. Aunt May never comes back. All she knows is emotion, now, the raw panic of a shadow creeping through her living room, sharp pain radiating from her stomach, gentle pressure of a hand gripping hers—

Oh. _Oh_. That’s a hand. That hand wasn’t there before. Who’s hand is that?

 _Peter_ , her mind supplies again, and maybe it’s her imagination, but it sounds exasperated now. Can a mind sound exasperated?

Well, probably hers can. She’s generally an exasperated person, especially when it comes to… what was his name? Peter. That’s right, Peter Parker, Spider-Man, her best friend, her boyfriend, her favorite person maybe ever, even when he’s being ridiculous and overprotective like he was before Anderson—

_Anderson._

Fear. White-hot terror that shoots the black away, and suddenly MJ is able to wrench open her eyes, heart thrumming like a butterfly in her chest. Anderson is in her living room, Anderson attacked her, Anderson—

“Hey, hey,” a soft, familiar voice whispers above her. Not Anderson. The hand around hers tightens almost painfully, but it’s nothing compared to the shock of mind-numbing agony that ripples from her stomach when she moves. Ow. _Owww_. Her eyebrows knit in pain and the world fades as she focuses on taking shallow breaths.

Except she doesn’t have to focus on that, because there’s a tube sticking down her throat.

A tube, a tube, obstructing her airway, choking her, killing her, oh _god no_ —

“MJ. Calm down! You’re okay.”

Peter.

 _Peter_.

His voice wobbles, like he’s trying to be strong and failing miserably. Normally she’d tease him for that, but her instincts are screeching at her, and she reaches for the tube in her throat, pain be damned, because it has to come out or she’ll suffocate and she’s not going back into the blackness again, not again. Her heart monitor screeches, and her breath comes in short gasps through her nose, which does _absolutely nothing_ , because she needs to—

“H-Hey! We need help in here,” Peter shouts, surging to his feet to hold her arms down. She can’t feel his fingers over her left one, can’t feel anything over the cast—that’s right, a cast, because Anderson broke her arm—but his grip on her right hand is solid and firm.

But his eyes aren’t solid and firm. His eyes are nearly white all the way around, panicked and scared.

Why is he scared? It makes MJ scared too, and she whimpers against the cold plastic in her throat.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he says.

It’s not okay. He’s trembling. Nothing’s okay, and she doesn’t know why.

And then someone new bursts into the room, someone dimly familiar, even through the haze of terror and whatever medication they have her drugged up on. Peter’s here, so the mystery woman must be safe, must be okay. But then again, Peter’s scared, so maybe that’s not true.

Regardless, the mystery woman woman muscles past him, bending over her, speaking in a clipped Spanish accent.

“Mary Jane, Mary Jane, look at me,” she takes MJ’s cheeks, gently, putting her whole face over MJ’s as if to distract her. Sure enough, another nurse followed her in, and now she’s putting a needle into the IV tube that’s swinging beside Peter’s horrified face.

MJ squirms, tears wetting her cheeks, her screams muffled by the goddamn tube down her throat.

It hurts.

It _hurts_ , but she can’t go back to the darkness. Please, anything but that. Not again…

But it doesn’t matter, because it’s already encroaching on her vision, drowning her. MJ turns her head away from the nurses, reaching for Peter.

But he washes away before she can find him.

 

* * *

  

Inky black. It’s so much deeper this time, so resolute it forces the memories from her mind, ekes the panic from her heart. But even when the events blur and she can’t remember why she was so scared, she remembers Peter’s terrified expression.

Peter, scared?

 

* * *

  

Everything hurts.

MJ might have died.

 

* * *

 

 

Except… if she died, there shouldn’t be pain. It starts as a dull ache deep in her stomach, right where— _right where the baby is_ , her mind confirms. That’s concerning; she didn’t want the baby, but Peter was so happy, and MJ loves Peter. He deserves to be a father, and even if it’s earlier than she expected, she’s excited to give that to him.

But the pain doesn’t stop at a dull ache. It amplifies into something horrendous, an all-consuming agony that makes MJ twist and writhe and hunch over her stomach, over the baby, and think, _it can’t survive this._

I _can barely survive this._

She gives up trying to suffer in silence and screams, but the darkness swallows it whole.

And then it swallows her, too.

 

* * *

  

By the time the darkness begins to lighten, MJ is so exhausted she almost misses it. But it happens fast: one minute, black, the next, gray, the next, white. And then awareness is back in a way it hasn’t been in ages, and she can feel something solid resting against her arm, intertwined with her fingers, breathing hot on her skin.

She can also feel the ache in her stomach, but it’s quieter now, a dull pain that barely makes it through the haze of her mind.

Everything’s foggy. She pries her eyes open, stares at the ceiling for a long, long time. Something beeps beside her: a heart monitor. An IV drips into her arm. A hospital after all, then. Something tells her she should know that, but the memory slips away as soon as she tries to grab it, water in a sieve.

Gone.

Her throat is utterly raw, and her mouth is so, so dry. It feels like her tongue is shriveling, and she can’t even swallow because there’s not enough spit. Trying just rubs her throat together like sandpaper, and it _hurts_ , but she doesn’t dare clench her eyes shut to ride the wave of pain. No, shutting her eyes makes it too easy for the darkness to reclaim her, and she’s thoroughly _done_ with that, thank you.

Instead, she embraces the pain. Pain means she’s alive.

Her arm tingles as someone breathes on it again. Oh. She’d forgotten about that. Head aching, throat on fire, she tilts her head down to see dark brown hair. Familiar hair. How it’s possible to love a head of hair so much, MJ has no idea, but emotion nearly chokes her when she sees it.

 _Peter_.

“Pete,” she croaks.

It’s barely audible, more of a hoarse rasp than anything, but he jackknifes upright so fast she flinches. It jostles her stomach, which screams in pain. MJ hisses, mind untethering as the agony returns, ambushing her, blinding her.

Peter’s hand is back in hers, squeezing just a smidge too hard. “MJ. You’re okay, y-you’re okay.” He repeats it with stuttering breaths.

Almost like he’s said it too many times, but it hasn’t been true until now.

Aching, she focuses on his words. It takes a few moments before she can blink back to the present. “Pete—” she repeats, but her abused throat can’t handle the air she’s forcing through it, and his name cuts off with a choke.

His brows knit together, and he ducks out of view for just a minute. He comes back with a tiny cup of water. “Rio said I could give you this if—if you woke up.”

 _If_ she woke up? She was always waking up.

Wasn’t she?

He continues, tentative now. “I can raise the bed so you can drink? Or… or you can go back to sleep, if you’re tired?”

“No,” she rasps, too quickly.

He freezes, hand inches from the bed’s controls.

 _Not that_ , she thinks in irritation. It’s so much effort to speak. Why can’t he just read her mind like a normal boyfriend?

Well, that makes her laugh, and then the pain flares back to life and she’s cringing again. It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it? Peter hovers over her, anxiously, as she croaks, “W-water. Please?”

He nods, taking her hand again as he presses one of the buttons. Slowly, the bed raises, bending at her waist. If she thought the agony of laughing was bad, it’s nothing compared to this. She literally does black out for a minute, darkness swarming her vision until all she hears is Peter saying, “The meds should be kicking in soon, MJ. Just hang on, okay?”

She hangs onto him, actually, squeezing his hand until she can breathe without flinching. It takes a while. He waits patiently, which is pretty comical for Spider-Man. He’s not usually one for patience.

Or silence.

But he doesn’t say a word until she regains the strength to nod at him. And then, as he lifts the cup to her lips and she takes a careful sip, the floodgates open, and suddenly _there’s_ the Peter Parker she knows.

“Rio said that removing the breathing tube would leave you with cuts on the back of your throat, and that it’s really painful. I wish I could give you more water, but she also said you can only have a sip. Any more and you might throw up. I mean, they gave you anti-nausea medication, but with your stomach, we need to avoid any added distress,” he sounds like he’s regurgitating Rio’s lecture word for word. Must have been paying close attention.

But the water feels fantastic against her throat, and it lubricates enough that she doesn’t feel like she’s dying just to force out a few words.

“What happened?”

He flinches. “You don’t remember?”

 _Anderson_ , her mind seethes.

 _Thanks, I remember_ him _,_ she thinks right back.

Huh. She’s not super used to talking to herself. What kind of meds have they given her? But before she can follow that thought, Peter squeezes her hand, lowers the water cup. He looks utterly miserable, and she can’t place why.

“You were attacked. Anderson broke in and—and—” he breaks off, shoulders trembling, bowing his forehead to her hand, inches off the mattress. His words are kind of muffled. “But you’re fine now. We’re fine now.”

She’s known him long enough to pin his tell.

“Lying,” she breathes.

He peeks at her over their intertwined fingers, and she thinks he might break if she pushes further. She tries to squeeze his hand, but it’s a lot of effort, and she feels pretty shitty. If she’s _half_ as bad as Peter looks, it must have been a near thing.

Near death.

She swallows again, embracing the fiery ache in her throat. She’s alive. He’s alive. They’re fine, just like he said.

But Peter still seems close to tears.

“What happened?” she repeats, and her fingers twitch inside his.

He tightens his grip, clenching his eyes shut. “I can’t say. Rio said not to distress you.”

“You’re—distressing me now—” she wheezes, aiming for humor. But her voice wobbles just like his, and it feels like she can’t breathe. Her heart monitor ticks up a bit, and he glances at it, paling.

“MJ, no, it’s nothing. You’re okay. That’s what matters.”

Lies.

Fine. He’s not going to tell her, so… so she has to figure it out. Anderson attacked. He forced himself on her. Pressed a knife to her neck. Raised the knife, blade glinting off the flickering TV. Plowed it into her stomach, which was horrifying because—

—the baby.

The _baby_.

Tears flood MJ’s eyes, and her heart monitor beeps faster and faster. She wants him to refute it. Wants him to laugh and say the baby’s fine, that her stomach aches for a totally different reason, that she was near-death but they both pulled through.

After all this, she _wants_ that goddamn kid. She wants a little spider family, for Peter. Hell, she wants it for herself, too.  

But Peter meets her devastated gaze and shakes his head, just once. It’s enough.  

“I’m so sorry, Mary Jane,” he whispers, utterly broken.

And suddenly, she can’t do anything but cry.

 

* * *

  

The rest of the week passes in a blur. People come in and out: Rio, who moved from pediatrics to become her full-time nurse, gently forces medication and rest. She sends Peter back to her house after two days, since their apartment is still technically a crime scene. Peter looks beyond relieved when she offers, but still doesn’t leave until MJ flat-out insists.

And only once he’s gone does MJ sob in earnest, held in Rio’s caring embrace. “I know, honey. I know,” the woman whispers, stroking MJ’s hair. “But you’ll get through this. You’re stronger than this week.”

She doesn’t voice what MJ is thinking: that having another child might not even be possible, thanks to Anderson’s blade. That Peter might never get a little spider-baby after all, all because MJ insisted on staying in the city, on hunting a killer.

Rio doesn’t have to say it. It’s been swirling in MJ’s mind, hounding her with guilt, from the moment she realized what happened.

Peter is going to be devastated, and it’s MJ’s fault. So she sobs, and Rio whispers comforting words until MJ feels strong enough to smile again.  

 

* * *

 

 

Miles visits later, shouldering his backpack with knitted brows. He clearly just came from school, but when Rio strolls from the room, he complains she wouldn’t let him skip class to stay at MJ’s bedside.

MJ laughs— _ow_ —and tells him it’s not necessary. School is important. Rio’s right.

“Yeah, yeah. She’s always right,” Miles mutters, but he smirks just a bit.  

They talk about everything and nothing, until MJ starts to feel tired and Miles pushes to his feet. But before he can leave, before her eyes slide shut, she asks, “Wait. How’s Gwen?”

Miles blushes, deeply. “Oh. She’s g-good. Yeah. Good.”

MJ squints at him.

“She’s, um… well, she’s sitting next to me at lunch now,” Miles finally admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Her ex isn’t happy about it, but she doesn’t seem to care.”

“That’s because you’re good company,” MJ says with a weary smile.

Miles shrugs. “Maybe. We’re taking it slow.” Then he seems to realize what he admitted, and hastily backtracks. “Not that we’re together. She just broke up with Tad. It’s too soon.”

“But it’s cool she’s talking to you,” MJ says.

He grins. “Yeah. It is.”

 

* * *

  

Peter is back when she wakes up, and a huge vase of daisies frames the back wall. MJ stares at it for several minutes, wondering if she’s finally hallucinating, before Peter notices her gaze and laughs. “Um, it’s from the Bugle. Robbie was calling your phone, so I told him you were in the hospital, and he—well, he’s a pretty darn good reporter.”

“He figured it out?” MJ moans, sinking further into her pillow.

Peter runs his thumb over her knuckles. “I mean, everyone knows Anderson was killed. The other news stations are starting to piece together the story. Holmes said she’s releasing your name as the ‘victim who survived’ in a few days.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.

MJ groans. “I kind of hate her.”

“Yuri does too. Maybe you guys can form a club.”

For a moment, she thinks she misheard. “Wait. Are you talking to Yuri now?”

Peter’s thumb freezes over her forefinger’s knuckle, and he clears his throat. “Ah, kind of? I don’t—she’s not doing the right thing. But I’m starting to see where she’s coming from, now.”

Yesterday, Peter told her he almost killed Anderson.

He told her Yuri intervened.

It doesn’t take a scientist genius to piece together what happened in the blanks, or how devastated Peter would have been if he’d pulled the trigger. Even now, he looks pretty miserable about it. MJ forces herself onto an elbow— _ow, owww_ —and tugs Peter down for a kiss.

Her lips are dry and his are chapped, but he kisses her like it’s been years instead of days.

“Thank her for me, will you?” MJ breathes against him. Yuri hasn’t visited her in the hospital, but a vase of flowers—dwarfed by Robbie’s, but still lovely—did mysteriously appear last night when MJ was sleeping.

It’s enough, as far as MJ’s concerned.

He presses his forehead to hers. “I did. But… Yuri wasn’t who stopped me.”

“I mean, I was unconscious in a surgical suite, so if you’re talking about me, that’s some mad voodoo.”

He’s startled into a laugh, which is exactly what MJ is looking for.

Maybe they can move on after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's mostly it!! :D :D I have like, 700 words to post for you guys tomorrow, because that's the happy ending some of you asked for. XD Stay tuned! 
> 
> Now please excuse me while I go rock back and forth in a corner, because i just caught up with The Third Option (thank GOD I forgot about it for two months so I could read all the way through those terrible cliffhangers). But now I am fucking DESTROYED. So.


	16. Epilogue 1b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fluff at the end. ;)

For the third time in a year, MJ calls in sick for work.

It’s not because of nausea this time, or other bodily injuries. It’s not because the stifling, over-caring energy from her coworkers makes it impossible to actually _work,_ or the fact that Robbie sidelined her to puff pieces for “being reckless.” It’s not because recovery is slow, and she’s already pulled her stitches twice and Peter threatened to web her to the bed if she keeps overdoing it.

No, it’s because her alarm rings, and for once, MJ just doesn’t want to go into work.

Peter sleeps right through it, which is… pretty amazing, actually. With his hearing, he’s usually awake the instant her phone starts to vibrate, before the ringtone even kicks in. She timed it once, and it’s like time slows down when he tunes into a noise.

Weirdo.

But it’s an icy winter morning just a few weeks before Thanksgiving, and even though it’s 7am, it’s still dark past her drawn curtains. Their bedroom—the carpet replaced with faux-wood tile, furniture rearranged to distance them _both_ from what happened—is warm and quiet, and Peter tossed the second comforter on their bed last week, so she’s even cozier than usual.

Plus, he’s still sleeping. And the moment she climbs out of bed, wincing at the ever-present ache in her stomach, fingers fluttering over the scar on her neck, Peter will be upright and asking questions like always.

“How do you feel?”

“Is it a good day?”

“Can I get you anything?”

And her favorite, which isn’t a question but still gets a raised eyebrow: “Promise me you'll take things slow, MJ.”

Really, this is the first morning she hasn’t heard that. Kind of makes her want to try that self-care crap Peter always talks about.

So she wedges back under the comforters, shoots a quick text to Robbie: _sick day. good luck writing those the puff pieces without me_. And before he even replies, she silences her phone and deposits it beside her pillow.

Then she snuggles closer to Peter, inhaling his clean scent, and he automatically adjusts to rest his chin on her hair. She fits perfectly against his lean body, swallowing a yawn as his arm winds around her waist.

He’s still asleep, far as she can tell. Or maybe he’s just getting better at faking it.

She doesn’t really care either way.

An hour later, when _his_ phone chimes, he mutes it with a touch and pulls the comforter over both of their heads like a protective cocoon.

“What if that was important?” MJ whispers, even though she really, really hopes it isn’t.

Peter just shrugs. “Nothing’s more important than you.”

“Cheesy.”

“Always.”

And they sleep the morning away.

 

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.  

Across town, Yuri clenches her jaw and lowers her phone, staring at the news article on her computer.

SPIDER-MAN’S TRUE IDENTITY, REVEALED? PICTURE HINTS AT NORMAL MAN.

It’s already trending, and soon it’ll be plastered on every newspaper and TV channel in New York. Maybe even the world.

 _Swinging through the city without your suit? Bold,_ she’d said on that rooftop opposite Anderson's hideout, forcing a casual tone even as she cursed Peter’s emotions, his stupidity. Well, her suspicions came true: the picture is grainy, clearly taken at night, with the subject blurred from movement. But Peter’s brown hair, his plaid shirt, his square jaw… it’s noticeable enough.

And it’s about to be dissected by everyone with a pair of eyes.

Yuri mutters a curse and dials the number again.

“Come on, Spider-Man. Pick up. _Pick up._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS IT'S DONE. I FINALLY GOT TO MARK IT COMPLETE. 
> 
> Plus a little bonus plot in case I ever get around to writing that sequel. :P 
> 
> This has been such a wild ride, and I want to offer a heartfelt THANK YOU to all my readers, especially the ones who reviewed from Day 1. You guys specifically kept me going at a time when it would have been very easy to mark this incomplete and move on. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. I can't tell you how happy I get to see all those reviews. (I definitely don't go back and reread them for fun... nope... not me...)
> 
> Cheers to the future, where I will be posting more whumpy oneshots. ;) LOVE YOU GUYS.


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